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NY  PUBLIC   LIBRARY      THE   BRANCH   LIBRARIES 


3  3333  06416  5786 


SJTHJBH  70  STACKS 


KIM 


KIM 


RUDYARD  KIPLING 

ILLUSTRATED  BY 

J.L.KIPLTNG 


GABDSN  O1Y       NEVV^  YORK 

DOUBIEIWY  PAGE  fi>  COMPANY 

1912 


COPYRIGHT,  1900,  1901, 

BY 

.  KfflJNG 


LJ 


ACKNOWLEDGMENT 

is  due  Mr.  Irving  E.  Raymond,  Jr.,  for  his 
permission  to  reproduce  as  a  lining  page 
the  painting  'by  Vassil-  Vere~stchagin 


I  I    •    •   4     • 


*."....•••••      • 

•.  .•••:  .*.  ./:.••::    : 
v  V:  .*.*•  „•:•"::    : 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 

Kim Frontispiece 

FACING  PACK 

'  Beggars  a  plenty  have  I  met,  and  holy  men  to  boot,  but  never 
such  a  yogi  nor  such  a  disciple' 44 

He  sat  long-legged  on  the  little  beast,  with  the  big  sword  at  his 
side, —  hand  dropped  on  the  pommel, —  staring  fiercely  over 
the  flat  lands 62 

The  lama  and  Kim  walked  a  little  to  one  side;  Kim  chewing  his 
stick  of  sugar-cane,  and  making  way  for  no  one  under  the 
status  of  a  priest 02 

*  First  I  will  take  my  pay,'  the  letter-writer  said 122 

'.    .    .    .    Pathans  are  not  faithless — except  in  horseflesh'      .     .     136 

'They  are  all  most  holy  and  —  most  greedy  ...  I  have  walked 
the  pillars  and  trodden  the  temples  till  my  feet  are  flayed,  and 
the  child  is  no  whit  better' 230 

Full-fleshed,  heavy-haunched,  bull-necked,  and  deep-voiced     .     .     278 
'  I  am  the  woman  of  Shamlegh' 308 

He  crossed  his  hands  on  his  lap  and  smiled,  as  a  man  who  has 
won  Salvation  for  himself  and  his  beloved 352 


KIM 


Oh  ye  who  tread  the  Narrow  Way 
By  Tophet-flare  to  Judgment  Day 
Be  gentle  when  the  heathen  pray 
To  Buddha  at  Kamakura 


HE  sat,  in  defiance  of  municipal  orders,  astride  the  gun  Zam- 
Zammeh  on  her  brick  platform  opposite  the  old  Ajaib-Gher  —  the 
Wonder  House,  as  the  natives  call  the  Lahore  Museum.  Who  hold 
Zam-Zammeh,  that  'fire-breathing  dragon,'  hold  the  Punjab;  for 
the  great  green-bronze  piece  is  always  first  of  the  conqueror's  loot. 

There  was  some  justification  for  Kim,  —  he  had  kicked  Lala 
Dinanath's  boy  off  the  trunnions,  —  since  the  English  held  the 
Punjab  and  Kim  was  English.  Though  he  was  burned  black  as 
any  native;  though  he  spoke  the  vernacular  by  preference,  and  his 
mother-tongue  in  a  clipped  uncertain  sing-song;  though  he  con- 
sorted on  terms  of  perfect  equality  with  the  small  boys  of  the  bazar; 
Kim  was  white  —  a  poor  white  of  the  very  poorest.  The  half-caste 
woman  who  looked  after  him  (she  smoked  opium  and  pretended 
to  keep  a  second-hand  furniture  shop  by  the  square  where  the  ticca 
gharries  stand)  told  the  missionaries  that  she  was  Kim's  mother's 
sister;  but  his  mother  had  been  nursemaid  in  a  colonel's  family  and 
had  married  Kimball  O'Hara,  a  young  colour-sergeant  of  the 
Mavericks,  an  Irish  regiment,  who  afterwards  took  a  post  on  the 
Sind,  Punjab,  and  Delhi  railway,  and  his  regiment  went  home 


4  KIM 

without  him.  She  died  of  cholera  in  Ferozepore,  and  O'Hara  fell  to 
drink  and  loafing  up  and  down  the  line  with  the  keen-eyed  three- 
year-old  baby.  Societies  and  chaplains,  anxious  for  the  child, 
tried  to  catch  him,  but  O'Hara  drifted  away,  till  he  came  across 
the  woman  who  took  opium  and  learned  the  taste  from  her,  and 
died  as  poor  whites  die  in  India.  His  estate  at  death  consisted  of 
three  papers  —  one  he  called  his  l  ne  varietur '  because  those  words 
were  written  below  his  signature  thereon,  and  the  other  his  'clear- 
ance certificate.'  The  third  was  Kim's  birth  certificate.  Those 
things,  he  was  used  to  say,  in  his  glorious  opium  hours,  would  yet 
make  little  Kimball  a  man.  On  no  account  was  Kim  to  part  with 
them,  for  they  belonged  to  a  great  piece  of  magic  —  such  magic  as 
men  practised  over  yonder  behind  the  Museum,  in  the  big  blue 
and  white  Jadoo-Gher  —  the  Magic  House,  as  they  call  the  Ma- 
sonic Lodge.  It  would,  he  said,  all  come  right  some  day,  and  Kim's 
horn  would  be  exalted  between  pillars  -  -  monstrous  pillars  -  -  of 
beauty  and  strength.  The  colonel  himself,  riding  on  a  horse,  at 
the  head  of  the  finest  regiment  in  the  world,  would  attend  to  Kim, 
-  little  Kim  that  should  have  been  better  off  than  his  father. 
Nine  hundred  first-class  devils,  \vhose  god  was  a  red  bull  on  a  green 
field,  would  attend  to  Kim,  if  they  had  not  forgotten  O'Hara  — 
poor  O'Hara  that  was  gang-foreman  on  the  Ferozepore  line.  Then 
he  would  weep  bitterly  in  the  broken  rush  chair  on  the  verandah. 
So  it  came  about  after  his  death  that  the  woman  sewed  parchment, 
paper,  and  birth  certificate  into  a  leather  amulet-case  which  she 
strung  round  Kim's  neck. 

'And  some  day,'  she  said,  confusedly  remembering  O'Hara's 
prophecies,  'there  will  come  for  you  a  great  red  bull  on  a  green 
field,  and  the  colonel  riding  on  his  tall  horse,  yes,  and'  -  dropping 
into  English  —  'nine  hundred  devils  —  pukka  shaitans' 


KIM  5 

'Ah,'  said  Kim,  'I  shall  remember.  A  red  bull  and  a  colonel  on  a 
horse  will  come,  but  first,  my  father  said,  come  the  two  men  making 
ready  the  ground  for  these  matters.  That  is  how,  my  father  said, 
they  always  did;  and  it  is  always  so  when  men  work  magic.' 

If  the  woman  had  sent  Kim  up  to  the  local  Jadoo-Gher  with 
those  papers,  he  would,  of  course,  have  been  taken  over  by  the 
Provincial  Lodge  and  sent  to  the  Masonic  Orphanage  in  the  Hills; 
but  what  she  had  heard  of  magic  she  distrusted.  Kim,  too,  held 
views  of  his  own  As  he  reached  the  years  of  indiscretion,  he 
learned  to  avoid  missionaries  and  white  men  of  serious  aspect  who 
asked  who  he  was,  and  what  he  did.  For  Kim  did  nothing  with  an 
immense  success.  True,  he  knew  the  wonderful  walled  city  of 
Lahore  from  the  Delhi  Gate  to  the  outer  Fort  Ditch;  was  hand  in 
glove  with  men  who  led  lives  stranger  than  anything  Haroun  al 
Raschid  dreamed  of;  that  he  lived  in  a  life  wild  as  that  of  the 
Arabian  Nights,  but  missionaries  and  secretaries  of  charitable  soci- 
eties could  not  see  the  beauty  of  it.  His  nickname  through  all  the 
wards  was  'Little  Friend  of  all  the  World';  and  very  often,  being 
lithe  and  inconspicuous,  he  executed  commissions  by  night  on  the 
crowded  housetops  for  sleek  and  shiny  young  men  of  fashion.  It 
was  intrigue,  of  course,  —  he  knew  that  much,  as  he  had  known  all 
evil  since  he  could  speak,  —  but  what  he  loved  was  the  game  for  its 
own  sake  —  the  stealthy  prowl  through  the  dark  gullies  and  lanes, 
the  crawl  up  a  water-pipe,  the  sights  and  sounds  of  the  women's 
world  on  the  flat  roofs,  and  the  headlong  flight  from  housetop  to 
housetop  under  cover  of  the  hot  dark.  Then  there  were  holy  men, 
ash-smeared  fakirs  by  their  brick  shrines  under  the  trees  at  the 
riverside,  with  whom  he  was  quite  familiar  —  greeting  them  as  they 
returned  from  begging  tours,  and,  when  no  one  was  by,  eating 
from  the  same  dish.  The  woman  who  looked  after  him  insisted 


6  KIM 

with  tears  that  he  should  wear  European  clothes  —  trousers,  a 
shirt,  and  a  battered  hat.  Kim  found  it  easier  to  slip  into  Hindu 
or  Mohammedan  garb  when  engaged  on  certain  businesses.  One 
of  the  young  men  of  fashion  -  -  he  who  was  found  dead  at  the  bot- 
tom of  a  well  on  the  night  of  the  earthquake  —  had  once  given  him 
a  complete  suit  of  Hindu  kit,  the  costume  of  a  low-caste  street  boy, 
and  Kim  stored  it  in  a  secret  place  under  some  baulks  in  Nila  Ram's 
timber-yard  beyond  the  Punjab  High  Court,  where  the  fragrant 
deodar  logs  lie  seasoning  after  they  have  driven  down  the  Ravee. 
When  there  was  business  or  frolic  afoot,  Kim  would  use  his  prop- 
erties, returning  at  dawn  to  the  verandah,  all  tired  out  from  shout- 
ing at  the  heels  of  a  marriage  procession,  or  yelling  at  a  Hindu 
festival.  Sometimes  there  was  food  in  the  house,  more  often  there 
was  not,  and  Kim  went  out  again  to  eat  with  his  native  friends. 

As  he  drummed  his  heels  against  Zam-Zammeh  he  turned  now 
and  again  from  his  king-of-the-castle  game  with  little  Chota  Lai 
and  Abdullah  the  sweetmeat-seller's  son  to  make  a  rude  remark  to 
the  native  policeman  on  guard  over  rows  of  shoes  at  the  Museum 
door.  The  big  Punjabi  grinned  tolerantly.  He  knew  Kim  of  old. 
So  did  the  water-carrier,  sluicing  water  on  the  dry  road  from  his 
goat-skin  bag.  So  did  Jawahir  Singh,  the  Museum  carpenter,  bent 
over  new  packing-cases.  So  did  everybody  in  sight  except  the 
peasants  from  the  country,  hurrying  up  to  the  Wonder  House  to 
view  the  things  that  men  made  in  their  own  province  and  elsewhere. 
The  Museum  was  given  up  to  Indian  arts  and  manufactures,  and 
anybody  who  chose  could  ask  the  curator  to  explain  things. 

'Off I  Off!  Let  me  up!'  cried  Abdullah,  climbing  up  Zam- 
Zammeh's  wheel. 

'Thy  father  was  a  pastry  cook,  Thy  mother  stole  the  ghi,' 
sang  Kim.  'All  Mussalmans  fell  off  Zam-Zammeh  long  ago!' 


KIM  7 

'Let  me  up!'  shrilled  little  Chota  Lai  in  his  gilt-embroidered  cap. 
His  father  was  worth  perhaps  half  a  million  sterling,  but  India  is 
the  only  democratic  land  in  the  world. 

'The  Hindus  fell  off  Zam-Zammeh  too.  The  Mussalmans 
pushed  them  off.  Thy  father  was  a  pastry  cook ' 

He  stopped;  for  there  shuffled  round  the  corner,  from  the  roaring 
Motee  Bazar,  such  a  man  as  Kim,  who  thought  he  knew  all  castes, 
had  never  seen.  He  was  nearly  six  feet  high,  dressed  in  fold  upon 
fold  of  dingy  stuff  like  horse-blanketing,  and  not  one  fold  of  it 
could  Kim  refer  to  any  known  trade  or  profession.  At  his  belt 
hung  a  long  open-work  iron  pencase  and  a  wooden  rosary  such  as 
holy  men  wear.  On  his  head  was  a  gigantic  sort  of  tam-o'-shanter. 
His  face  was  yellow  and  wrinkled,  like  that  of  Fook  Shing,  the 
Chinese  bootmaker  in  the  bazar.  His  eyes  turned  up  at  the  cor- 
ners and  looked  like  little  slits  of  onyx. 

'Who  is  that?'  said  Kim  to  his  companions. 

'Perhaps  it  is  a  man,'  said  Abdullah,  finger  in  mouth,  staring. 

'Without  doubt,'  returned  Kim;  'but  he  is  no  man  of  India  that 
I  have  ever  seen.' 

'A  Yogi,  perhaps,'  said  Chota  Lai,  spying  the  rosary.  'See! 
He  goes  in  to  the  Wonder  House ! ' 

'Nay,  nay,'  said  the  policeman,  shaking  his  head.  'I  do  not 
understand  your  talk.'  The  constable  spoke  Punjabi.  'Oh,  The 
Friend  of  all  the  World,  what  does  he  say?' 

'Send  him  hither,'  said  Kim,  dropping  from  Zam-Zammeh,  flour- 
ishing his  bare  heels.  'He  is  a  foreigner,  and  thou  art  a  buffalo.' 

The  man  turned  helplessly  and  drifted  towards  the  boys.  He 
was  old,  and  his  woollen  gaberdine  still  reeked  of  the  stinking 
artemisia  of  the  mountain  passes. 

'O  Children,  what  is  that  big  house?'  he  said  in  very  fair  Urdu. 


8  KIM 

'The  Ajaib-Gher,  the  Wonder  House!'  Kim  gave  him  no 
tjtle  —  SUch  as  Lala  or  Mian.  He  could  not  divine  the  man's 
creed. 

'Ah!    The  Wonder  House!     Can  any  enter?' 

'It  is  written  above  the  door  —  all  can  enter.' 

'Without  payment?' 

'I  go  in  and  out.     /  am  no  banker,'  laughed  Kim. 

'Alas!  I  am  an  old  man.  I  did  not  know.'  Then,  fingering 
his  rosary,  he  turned  toward  the  Museum. 

'What  is  your  caste?  Where  is  your  house?  Have  you  come 
far?'  Kim  asked. 

'  I  came  by  Kulu  —  from  beyond  the  Kailas  —  but  what  know 
you  ?  From  the  Hills  where '  —  he  sighed  —  '  the  air  and  water  are 
fresh  and  cool.' 

'Aha!  Khitai  (a  Chinaman),'  said  Abdullah  proudly.  Fook 
Shing  had  once  chased  him  out  of  his  shop  for  spitting  at  the  joss 
above  the  boots. 

'Pahari  (a  hill  man),'  said  little  Chota  Lai. 

'Ay,  child  —  a  hill  man  from  hills  thou'lt  never  see.  Didst  hear 
of  Bhotiyal  (Tibet)?  I  am  no  Khitai,  but  a  Bhotiya  (Tibetan), 
since  you  must  know  —  a  lama  —  or,  say  a  guru  in  your  tongue.' 

'A  guru  from  Tibet,'  said  Kim.  'I  have  not  seen  such  a  man. 
They  be  Hindus  in  Tibet,  then?' 

'We  be  followers  of  the  Middle  Way,  living  in  peace  in  our  lamas- 
series,  and  I  go  to  see  the  Four  Holy  Places  before  I  die.  Now  do 
you,  who  are  children,  know  as  much  as  I  do  who  am  old.'  He 
smiled  benignantly  on  the  boys. 

'Hast  thou  eaten?' 

He  fumbled  in  his  bosom  and  drew  forth  a  worn  wooden  begging- 
bowl.  The  boys  nodded.  All  priests  of  their  acquaintance  begged. 


KIM  9 

'I  do  not  wish  to  eat  yet.'  He  turned  his  head  like  an  old  tor- 
toise in  the  sunlight.  *  Is  it  true  that  there  are  many  images  in  the 
Wonder  House  of  Lahore?'  He  repeated  the  last  words  as  one 
making  sure  of  an  address. 

'That  is  true,'  said  Abdullah.  'It  is  full  of  heathen  buts.  Thou 
also  art  an  idolater.' 

'Never  mind  him,9  said  Kim.  'That  is  the  Government's  house 
and  there  is  no  idolatry  in  it,  but  only  a  Sahib  with  a  white  beard. 
Come  with  me  and  I  will  show.' 

'Strange  priests  eat  boys,'  whispered  Chota  Lai. 

'And  he  is  a  stranger  and  a  biit-parast  (idolater),'  said  Abdullah 
the  Mohammedan. 

Kim  laughed.  '  He  is  new.  Run  to  your  mother's  laps,  and  be 
safe.  Come,  old  man!' 

Kim  clicked  round  the  self- registering  turnstile;  the  old  man  fol- 
lowed and  halted  amazed.  In  the  entrance-hall  stood  the  larger 
figures  of  the  Greco-Buddhist  sculptures  done,  savants  know  how 
long  since,  by  forgotten  workmen  whose  hands  were  feeling,  and 
not  unskilfully,  for  the  mysteriously  transmitted  Grecian  touch. 
There  were  hundreds  of  pieces,  friezes  of  figures  in  relief,  fragments 
of  statues  and  slabs,  crowded  with  figures  that  had  encrusted  the 
brick  walls  of  the  Buddhist  Stupas  and  viharas  of  the  North  Coun- 
try and  now,  dug  up  and  labelled,  made  the  pride  of  the  Museum. 
In  open-mouthed  wonder  the  lama  turned  to  this  and  that,  and 
finally  checked  in  rapt  attention  before  a  large  alto-relief  repre- 
senting a  coronation  or  apotheosis  of  the  Lord  Buddha.  The 
Master  was  represented  seated  on  a  lotus  the  petals  of  which  were 
so  deeply  undercut  as  to  show  almost  detached.  Round  him  was 
an  adoring  hierarchy  of  kings,  elders,  and  old-time  Buddhas.  Be- 
low were  lotus-covered  waters  with  fishes  and  water-birds.  Two 


io  KIM 

butterfly-winged  dewas  held  a  wreath  over  his  head;  above  them 
another  pair  supported  an  umbrella  surmounted  by  the  jewelled 
headdress  of  the  Bodhisat. 

'The  Lord!  The  Lord!  It  is  Sakya  Muni  himself,'  the  lama 
half  sobbed;  and  under  his  breath  began  the  wonderful  Buddhist 
invocation :  — 

'To  Him  the  Way  —  the  Law  —  Apart  — 
Whom  Maya  held  beneath  her  heart 
Ananda's  Lord  —  the  Bodhisat' 

'And  he  is  here!  The  Most  Excellent  Law  is  here  also.  My 
pilgrimage  is  well  begun.  And  what  work!  What  work! ' 

'Yonder  is  the  Sahib,'  said  Kim,  and  dodged  sideways  among 
the  cases  of  the  arts  and  manufacture  wing.  A  white-bearded 
Englishman  was  looking  at  the  lama,  who  gravely  turned  and 
saluted  him  and  after  some  fumbling  drew  out  a  note-book  and  a 
scrap  of  paper. 

'Yes,  that  is  my  name,'  smiling  at  the  clumsy,  childish 
print. 

'One  of  us  who  had  made  pilgrimage  to  the  Holy  Places  —  he  is 
now  Abbot  of  the  Lung-Cho  Monastery  -  -  gave  it  me,'  stammered 
the  lama.  'He  spoke  of  these.'  His  lean  hand  moved  tremulously 
round. 

'Welcome,  then,  O  lama  from  Tibet.  Here  be  the  images,  and 
I  am  here '  —  he  glanced  at  the  lama's  face  —  '  to  gather  knowledge. 
Come  to  my  office  a  while.'  The  old  man  was  trembling  with 
excitement. 

The  office  was  but  a  little  wooden  cubicle  partitioned  off  from  the 
sculpture-lined  gallery.  Kim  laid  himself  down,  his  ear  against  a 
crack  in  the  heat-split  cedar  door,  and,  following  his  instinct,  set 
himself  to  listen  and  watch. 


KIM  ii 

Most  of  the  talk  was  altogether  above  his  head.  The  lama, 
haltingly  at  first,  spoke  to  the  curator  of  his  own  lamassery,  the 
Such-zen,  opposite  the  Painted  Rocks,  four  months'  march  away. 
The  curator  brought  out  a  huge  book  of  photos  and  showed  him 
that  very  place,  perched  on  its  crag,  overlooking  the  gigantic 
valley  of  many-hued  strata. 

'Ay,  ay!1  The  lama  mounted  a  pair  of  horn-rimmed  spectacles 
of  Chinese  work.  'Here  is  the  very  door  through  which  we  bring 
wood  before  winter.  And  thou  —  the  English  know  of  these 
things?  He  who  is  now  Abbot  of  Lung-Cho  told  me,  but  I  did 
not  believe.  The  Lord  —  the  Excellent  One  —  He  has  honour  here 
too?  And  His  life  is  known? ' 

'It  is  all  carven  upon  the  stones.  Come  and  see,  if  thou  art 
rested.' 

Out  shuffled  the  lama  to  the  main  hall,  and,  the  curator  beside 
him,  went  through  the  collection  with  the  reverence  of  a  devotee 
and  the  appreciative  instinct  of  a  craftsman. 

Incident  by  incident  in  the  beautiful  story  he  identified  on  the 
blurred  stone,  puzzled  here  and  there  by  the  unfamiliar  Greek  con- 
vention, but  delighted  as  a  child  at  each  new  trove.  Where  the 
sequence  failed,  as  in  the  Annunciation,  the  curator  supplied  it 
from  his  mound  of  books  —  French  and  German,  with  photo- 
graphs and  reproductions. 

Here  was  the  devout  Asita,  the  pendant  of  Simeon  in  the  Chris- 
tian story,  holding  the  Holy  Child  on  his  knee  while  mother  and 
father  listened;  and  here  were  incidents  in  the  legend  of  the  cousin 
Devadatta;  here  was  the  wicked  woman  who  accused  the  Master  of 
impurity,  all  confounded;  here  was  the  teaching  in  the  Deer-park; 
the  miracle  that  stunned  the  fire- worshippers;  here  was  the  Bod- 
hisat  in  royal  state  as  a  prince;  the  miraculous  birth;  the  death  at 


12  KIM 

Kusinagara,  where  the  weak  disciple  fainted;  while  there  were  al- 
most countless  repetitions  of  the  meditation  under  theBodhi  tree; 
and  the  adoration  of  the  alms-bowl  was  everywhere.  In  a  few 
minutes  the  curator  saw  that  his  guest  was  no  mere  bead-telling 
mendicant,  but  a  scholar  of  parts.  And  they  went  at  it  all  over 
again,  the  lama  taking  snuff,  wiping  his  spectacles,  and  talking  at 
railway  speed  in  a  bewildering  mixture  of  Urdu  and  Tibetan.  He 
had  heard  of  the  travels  of  the  Chinese  pilgrims,  Fo-Hian  and  Hwen 
Thiang,  and  was  anxious  to  know  if  there  was  any  translation  of 
their  record.  He  drew  in  his  breath  as  he  turned  helplessly  over 
the  pages  of  Beal  and  Stanislas  Julien.  "Tis  all  here.  A  treasure 
locked.'  Then  he  composed  himself  reverently  to  listen  to  frag- 
ments, hastily  rendered  into  Urdu.  For  the  first  time  he  heard  of 
the  labours  of  European  scholars,  who  by  the  help  of  these  and  a 
hundred  other  documents  have  identified  the  Holy  Places  of  Budd- 
hism. Then  he  was  shown  a  mighty  map,  spotted  and  traced  with 
yellow.  The  brown  finger  followed  the  curator's  pencil  from  point 
to  point.  Here  wras  Kapilavastu,  here  the  Middle  Kingdom,  and 
here  Mahabodi,  the  Mecca  of  Buddhism;  and  here  was  Kusina- 
gara, sad  place  of  the  Holy  One's  death.  The  old  man  bowed  his 
head  over  the  sheets  in  silence  for  a  while,  and  the  curator  lit  an- 
other pipe.  Kim  had  fallen  asleep.  When  he  waked,  the  talk, 
still  in  spate,  was  more  within  his  comprehension. 

'And  thus  it  was,  O  Fountain  of  Wisdom,  that  I  decided  to 
go  to  Holy  Places  which  His  foot  had  trod  —  to  the  Birthplace, 
even  to  Kapila;  then  to  Maha  Bodhi,  which  is  Buddh  Gaya  — 
to  the  Monastery  —  to  the  Deer-park  —  to  the  place  of  His 
death.' 

The  lama  lowered  his  voice.  'And  I  come  here  alone.  For 
five  —  seven  —  eighteen  —  forty  years  it  was  in  my  mind  that 


KIM  13 

the  Old  Law  was  not  well  followed ;  being  overlaid,  as  thou  knowest, 
with  devildom,  charms,  and  idolatry.  Even  as  the  child  outside 
said  but  now.  Ay,  even  as  the  child  said,  with  but-parasti.' 

1  So  comes  it  with  all  faiths.' 

'Thinkest  thou?  The  books  of  my  lamassery  I  read,  and  they 
were  as  dried  pith;  and  the  later  ritual  with  which  we  of  the  Re- 
formed Law  have  cumbered  ourselves  —  that,  too,  had  no  worth  to 
these  old  eyes.  Even  the  followers  of  the  Excellent  One  are  at 
feud  on  feud  with  one  another.  It  is  all  illusion.  Ay,  Maya, 
illusion.  But  I  have  another  desire '  —  the  seamed  yellow  face 
drew  within  three  inches  of  the  curator,  and  the  long  forefinger  nail 
tapped  on  the  table.  'Your  scholars,  by  these  books,  have  fol- 
lowed the  Blessed  Feet  in  all  their  wanderings;  but  there  are  things 
which  they  have  not  sought  out.  I  know  nothing,  —  nothing  do  I 
know,  —  but  I  go  to  free  myself  from  the  Wheel  of  Things  by  a 
most  broad  and  open  road.'  He  smiled  with  simple  triumph. 
'As  a  pilgrim  to  the  Holy  Places  I  acquire  merit.  But  there  is  more. 
Listen  to  a  true  thing.  When  our  gracious  Lord,  being  as  yet  a 
youth,  sought  a  mate,  men  said,  in  his  father's  court,  that  he  was 
over  tender  for  marriage.  Thou  knowest?' 

The  curator  nodded;  wondering  what  would  come  next. 

'So  they  made  the  triple  trial  of  strength  against  all  comers. 
And  at  the  test  of  the  Bow,  our  Lord  first  breaking  that  which 
they  gave  him,  called  for  such  a  bow  as  none  might  bend.  Thou 
knowest  ?' 

'It  is  written.     I  have  read.' 

'And,  overshooting  all  other  marks,  the  arrow  passed  far  and 
far  beyond  sight.  At  the  last  it  fell;  and,  where  it  touched  earth, 
there  broke  out  a  stream  which  presently  became  a  river,  whose 
nature,  by  our  Lord's  beneficence,  and  that  merit  He  acquired  ere 


I4  KIM 

He  freed  himself,  is  that  whoso  bathes  in  it  washes  away  all  taint 
and  speckle  of  sin.' 

'So  it  is  written,'  said  the  curator  sadly. 

The  lama  drew  a  long  breath.  '  Where  is  that  river,  Fountain  of 
Wisdom,  where  fell  the  arrow?' 

'Alas,  my  brother,  I  do  not  know,'  said  the  curator. 

'Nay,  if  it  please  thec  to  forget  —  the  one  thing  only  that  thou 
hast  not  told  me.  Surely  thou  must  know?  See,  I  am  an  old 
man!  I  ask  with  my  head  between  thy  feet,  O  Fountain  of  Wis- 
dom. We  know  He  drew  the  bow !  We  know  the  arrow  fell !  We 
know  the  stream  gushed!  Where  then  is  the  river?  My  dream 
told  me  to  find  it.  So  I  came.  I  am  here.  But  where  is  the  river  ? ' 

'If  I  knew,  think  you  I  would  not  cry  it  aloud?' 

'By  it  one  attains  freedom  from  the  Wheel  of  Things,'  the  lama 
went  on,  unheeding.  'The  River  of  the  Arrow!  Think  again! 
Some  little  stream,  may  be.  Dried  in  the  heats?  But  the  Holy 
One  would  never  so  cheat  an  old  man.' 

'I  do  not  know.     I  do  not  know.' 

The  lama  brought  his  thousand-wrinkled  face  once  more  a  hand's 
breadth  from  the  Englishman's.  '  I  see  thou  dost  not  know.  Not 
being  of  the  Law,  the  matter  is  hid  from  thee.' 

'Ay  —  hidden  —  hidden.' 

'We  are  both  bound,  thou  and  I,  my  brother.  But  I '  —  he  rose 
with  a  sweep  of  the  soft  thick  drapery  —  'I  go  to  cut  myself  free. 
Come  also!' 

'I  am  bound,'  said  the  curator.     'But  whither  goest  thou ?' 

'First  to  Kashi  (Benares):  where  else?  There  I  shall  meet  one 
of  the  pure  faith  in  a  Jain  temple  of  that  city.  He  also  is  a  seeker 
in  secret,  and  from  him  haply  I  may  learn.  May  be  he  will  go  with 
me  to  Buddh  Gaya.  Thence  north  and  west  to  Kapilavastu,  and 


KIM  15 

there  will  I  seek  for  the  river.  Nay,  I  will  seek  everywhere  as  I 
go  —  for  the  place  is  not  known  where  the  arrow  fell.' 

'And  how  wilt  thou  go?  It  is  a  far  cry  to  Delhi,  and  farther  to 
Benares.' 

1  By  road  and  the  trains.  From  Pathan  Kot,  having  left  the 
Hills,  I  came  hither  in  a  te-rain.  It  goes  swiftly.  At  first  I  was 
amazed  to  see  those  tall  poles  by  the  side  of  the  road  snatching  up 
and  snatching  up  their  threads,'  —  he  illustrated  the  stoop  and 
whirl  of  a  telegraph  pole  flashing  past  the  train.  'But  later,  I  was 
cramped  and  desired  to  walk,  as  I  am  used.' 

'And  thou  art  sure  of  thy  road?'  said  the  curator. 

'Oh,  for  that  one  but  asks  a  question  and  pays  money,  and  the 
appointed  persons  despatch  all  to  the  appointed  place.  That 
much  I  knew  in  my  lamassery  from  sure  report,'  said  the  lama 
proudly. 

'And  when  dost  thou  go?'  The  curator  smiled  at  the  mixture 
of  old  world  piety  and  modern  progress  that  is  the  note  of  India 
to-day. 

'As  soon  as  may  be.  I  follow  the  places  of  His  life  till  I  come  to 
the  River  of  the  Arrow.  There  is,  moreover,  a  written  paper  of  the 
hours  of  the  trains  that  go  south.' 

'And  for  food?'  Lamas,  as  a  rule,  have  good  store  of  money 
somewhere  about  them,  but  the  curator  wished  to  make 
sure. 

'For  the  journey,  I  take  up  the  Master's  begging-bowl.  Yes. 
Even  as  he  went  so  go  I,  forsaking  the  ease  of  my  monastery. 
There  was  with  me  when  I  left  the  Hills  a  chela  (disciple)  who 
begged  for  me  as  the  Rule  demands,  but  halting  in  Kulu  a  while  a 
fever  took  him  and  he  died.  I  have  now  no  chela,  but  I  will  take  my 
alms-bowl  and  thus  enable  the  charitable  to  acquire  merit.'  He 


16  KIM 

nodded  his  head  valiantly.  Learned  doctors  of  a  lamassery  do  not 
beg,  but  the  lama  was  an  enthusiast  in  this  quest. 

'Be  it  so,'  said  the  curator  smiling.  '  Suffer  me  now  to  acquire 
merit.  We  be  craftsmen  together,  thou  and  I.  Here  is  a  new 
book  of  white  English  paper:  here  be  sharpened  pencils  two  and 
three  —  thick  and  thin,  all  good  for  a  scribe.  Now  lend  me  thy 
spectacles.' 

The  curator  looked  through  them.  They  were  heavily  scratched 
but  the  power  was  almost  exactly  that  of  his  own  pair,  which  he 
slid  into  the  lama's  hand,  saying:  'Try  these. ' 

'A  feather!  A  very  feather  upon  the  face!'  The  old  man 
turned  his  head  delightedly  and  wrinkled  up  his  nose.  '  How 
scarcely  do  I  feel  them!  How  clearly  do  I  see! ' 

'They  be  bilaur  —  crystal  and  will  never  scratch.  May  they 
help  thee  to  thy  River,  for  they  are  thine.' 

'I  will  take  them  and  the  pencils  and  the  white  note-book,'  said 
the  lama,  '  as  a  sign  of  friendship  between  priest  and  priest  —  and 

now '  he  fumbled  at  his  belt,  detached  the  open  iron-work 

pencase,  and  laid  it  on  the  curator's  table.  'That  is  for  a  memory 
between  thee  and  me  —  my  pencase.  It  is  something  old  —  even 
as  I  am.' 

It  was  a  piece  of  ancient  design,  Chinese,  of  an  iron  that  is  not 
smelted  in  these  days;  and  the  collector's  heart  in  the  curator's 
bosom  had  gone  out  to  it  from  the  first.  For  no  persuasion  would 
the  lama  resume  his  gift. 

'When  I  return,  having  found  the  River,  I  will  bring  thee  a  written 
picture  of  the  Padma  Samthora  —  such  as  I  used  to  make  on  silk 
at  the  lamassery.  Yes  —  and  of  the  Wheel  of  Life,'  he  chuckled, 
'for  we  be  craftsmen  together,  thou  and  I.' 

The  curator  would  have  detained  him:  they  are  few  in  the  world 


KIM  17 

who  still  have  the  secret  of  the  conventional  brush-pen  Buddhist 
pictures  which  are,  as  it  were,  half  written  and  half  drawn.  But 
the  lama  strode  out,  head  high  in  air,  and  pausing  an  instant  before 
the  great  statue  of  a  Bodhisat  in  meditation,  brushed  through  the 
turn-stiles. 

Kim  followed  like  a  shadow.  What  he  had  overheard  excited 
him  wildly.  This  man  was  entirely  new  to  all  his  experience,  and 
he  meant  to  investigate  further:  precisely  as  he  would  have  in- 
vestigated a  new  building  or  a  strange  festival  in  Lahore  city. 
The  lama  was  his  trove,  and  he  purposed  to  take  possession. 
Kim's  mother  had  been  Irish  too. 

The  old  man  halted  by  Zam-Zammeh  and  looked  round  till  his 
eye  fell  on  Kim.  The  inspiration  of  his  pilgrimage  had  left  him 
for  a  while,  and  he  felt  old,  forlorn,  and  very  empty. 

'Do  not  sit  under  that  gun,'  said  the  policeman  loftily. 

'  Huh !  Owl ! '  was  Kim's  retort  on  the  lama's  behalf.  '  Sit  under 
that  gun  if  it  please  thee.  Why  didst  thou  steal  the  milk-woman's 
slippers,  Dunnoo?' 

That  was  an  utterly  unfounded  charge  sprung  on  the  spur  of  the 
moment,  but  it  silenced  Dunnoo,  who  knew  that  Kim's  clear  yell 
could  call  up  legions  of  bad  boys  if  need  arose. 

'And  what  didst  thou  worship  within?'  said  Kim  affably,  squat- 
ting in  the  shade  beside  the  lama. 

'I  worshipped  none,  child.     I  bowed  before  the  Excellent  Law.' 

Kim  accepted  this  new  god  without  emotion.  He  already  knew 
a  few  score. 

'And  what  dost  thou  do?' 

'I  beg.  I  remember  now  it  is  long  since  I  have  eaten  or  drunk. 
What  is  the  custom  of  chanty  in  this  town?  In  silence,  as  we  do 
of  Tibet,  or  speaking  aloud?' 


i8  KIM 

'Those  who  beg  in  silence  starve  in  silence,'  said  Kim,  quoting  a 
native  proverb.  The  lama  tried  to  rise,  but  sank  back  again, 
sighing  for  his  disciple,  dead  in  far  away  Kulu.  Kim  watched  — 
head  to  one  side,  considering  and  interested. 

'Give  me  the  bowl.  I  know  the  people  of  this  city  —  all  who  are 
charitable.  Give,  and  I  will  bring  it  back  filled.'  Simply  as  a 
child  the  old  man  handed  him  the  bowl. 

'Rest  thou.     I  know  the  people.' 

He  trotted  off  to  the  open  shop  of  a  Kunjri,  a  low-caste  vege- 
table-seller, which  lay  opposite  the  belt-tramway  line  down  the 
Motee  Bazar.  She  knew  Kim  of  old. 

'Oho,  hast  thou  turned  jogi,  with  thy  begging-bowl?'  she  cried. 

'Nay,' said  Kim  proudly.  'There  is  a  new  priest  in  the  city  — 
a  man  such  as  I  have  never  seen.' 

'Old  priest  -  -  young  tiger,'  said  the  woman  angrily.  'I  am  tired 
of  new  priests!  They  settle  on  our  wares  like  flies.  Is  the  father 
of  my  son  a  well  of  charity  to  give  to  all  who  ask? ' 

'No,'  said  Kim.  'Thy  man  is  rather  yagi  (bad  tempered)  than 
yogi  (a  holy  man).  But  this  priest  is  new.  The  Sahib  in  the 
Wonder  House  has  talked  to  him  like  a  brother.  O  my  mother, 
fill  me  this  bowl.  He  waits.' 

'That  bowl  indeed!  That  cow-bellied  basket!  Thou  hast  as 
much  grace  as  the  holy  bull  of  Shiva.  He  has  taken  the  best  of  a 
basket  of  onions  already,  this  morn;  and  forsooth,  I  must  fill  thy 
bowl.  He  comes  here  again.' 

The  huge  mouse-coloured  Brahminee  bull  of  the  ward  was  shoul- 
dering his  way  through  the  many-coloured  crowd,  a  stolen  plantain 
hanging  out  of  his  mouth.  He  headed  straight  for  the  shop,  well 
knowing  his  privileges  as  a  sacred  beast,  lowered  his  head,  and 
puffed  heavily  along  the  line  of  baskets  ere  making  his  choice.  Up 


KIM  19 

flew  Kim's  hard  little  heel  and  caught  him  on  his  moist  blue  nose. 
He  snorted  indignantly,  and  walked  away  across  the  tram  line, 
his  hump  quivering  with  rage. 

'See!  I  have  saved  more  than  the  bowl  will  cost  thrice  over. 
Now,  mother,  a  little  rice  and  some  dried  fish  atop  —  yes,  and  some 
vegetable  curry.' 

A  growl  came  out  of  the  back  of  the  shop,  where  a  man  lay. 

'He  drove  away  the  bull,'  said  the  woman  in  an  undertone.  'It 
is  good  to  give  to  the  poor.'  She  took  the  bowl  and  returned  it 
full  of  hot  rice. 

'But  my  yogi  is  not  a  cow,'  said  Kim,  gravely  making  a  hole 
with  his  fingers  in  the  top  of  the  mound.  'A  little  curry  is  good, 
and  a  dried  cake,  and  a  morsel  of  conserve  would  please  him,  I 
think.' 

'It  is  a  hole  as  big  as  thy  head,'  said  the  woman  fretfully.  But 
she  filled  it,  none  the  less,  with  good,  steaming  vegetable  curry, 
clapped  a  dried  cake  atop,  and  a  morsel  of  clarified  butter  on  the 
cake,  dabbed  a  lump  of  sour  tamarind  conserve  at  the  side;  and 
Kim  looked  at  the  load  lovingly. 

'That  is  good.  When  I  am  in  the  bazar  the  bull  shall  not  come 
to  this  house.  He  is  a  bold  beggarman.' 

'And  thou  ?'  laughed  the  woman.  'But  speak  well  of  bulls. 
Hast  thou  not  told  me  that  some  day  a  bull  will  come  out  of  a  field 
to  help  thee?  Now  hold  all  straight  and  ask  for  the  holy  man's 
blessing  upon  me.  Perhaps,  too,  he  knows  a  cure  for  my  daugh- 
ter's sore  eyes.  Ask  him  that  also,  O  thou  Little  Friend  of  all  the 
World.' 

But  Kim  had  danced  off  ere  the  end  of  the  sentence,  dodging 
pariah  dogs  and  hungry  acquaintances. 

'Thus  do  we  beg  who  know  the  way  of  it,'  said  he  proudly  to  the 


20  KIM 

lama,  who  opened  his  eyes  at  the  contents  of  the  bowl.  'Eat  now 
and  —  I  will  eat  with  thee.  Ohe  bhistie/'  he  called  to  the  water- 
carrier,  sluicing  the  crotons  by  the  Museum.  'Give  water  here. 
We  men  are  thirsty.' 

'We  men! '  said  the  bhistie,  laughing.  'Is  one  skinful  enough  for 
such  a  pair?  Drink  then,  in  the  name  of  the  Compassionate.' 

He  loosed  a  thin  stream  into  Kim's  hands,  who  drank  native 
fashion;  but  the  lama  must  needs  pull  out  a  cup  from  his  inex- 
haustible upper  draperies  and  drink  ceremonially. 

'Pardesi  (a  foreigner),'  Kim  explained,  as  the  old  man  delivered 
in  an  unknown  tongue  what  was  evidently  a  blessing. 

They  ate  together  in  great  content,  clearing  the  beggar's  bowl. 
Then  the  lama  took  snuff  from  a  portentous  wooden  snuff-box, 
fingered  his  rosary  awhile,  and  so  dropped  into  the  easy  sleep  of 
age,  as  the  shadow  of  Zam-Zammeh  grew  long. 

Kim  loafed  over  to  the  nearest  tobacco-seller,  a  rather  lively 
young  Mohammedan  woman,  and  begged  a  rank  cigar  of  the  sort 
that  they  sell  to  students  of  the  Punjab  University  who  copy  Eng- 
lish customs.  Then  he  smoked  and  thought,  knees  to  chin,  under 
the  belly  of  the  gun,  and  the  outcome  of  his  thoughts  was  a 
sudden  and  stealthy  departure  in  the  direction  of  Nila  Ram's 
timber-yard. 

The  lama  did  not  wake  till  the  evening  life  of  the  city  had  begun 
with  lamp-lighting  and  the  return  of  clerks  and  subordinates  from 
the  Government  offices.  He  stared  dizzily  in  all  directions,  but 
none  looked  at  him  save  a  Hindu  urchin  in  a  dirty  turban  and 
Isabella-coloured  clothes.  Suddenly  he  bowed  his  head  on  his 
knees  and  wailed. 

'What  is  this? 'said  the  boy,  standing  before  him.  'Hast  thou 
been  robbed?' 


KIM  21 

'It  is  my  new  chela  (my  disciple)  that  is  gone  away  from  me,  and 
I  know  not  where  he  is.' 

'And  what  like  of  man  was  thy  disciple?' 

'It  was  a  boy  who  came  to  me  in  place  of  him  who  died,  on  ac- 
count of  the  merit  which  I  had  gained  when  I  bowed  before  the  Law 
within  there.'  He  pointed  toward  the  Museum.  '  He  came  upon 
me  to  show  me  a  road  which  I  had  lost.  He  led  me  into  the  Won- 
der House,  and  by  his  talk  made  me  bold  to  speak  to  the  Keeper  of 
the  Images,  so  that  I  was  cheered  and  made  strong.  And  when  I 
was  faint  with  hunger  he  begged  for  me,  as  would  a  chela  for  his 
teacher.  Suddenly  was  he  sent.  Suddenly  has  he  gone  away.  It 
was  in  my  mind  to  have  taught  him  the  Law  upon  the  road  to 
Benares.' 

Kim  stood  amazed  at  this,  because  he  had  overheard  the  talk  in 
the  Museum,  and  knew  that  the  old  man  was  speaking  the  truth, 
which  is  a  thing  a  native  seldom  presents  to  a  stranger. 

''But  I  see  now  that  he  was  but  sent  upon  a  purpose.  By  this  I 
know  that  I  shall  find  a  certain  river  for  which  I  seek.' 

'The  River  of  the  Arrow?'  said  Kim,  with  a  superior  smile. 

*Is[this  yet  another  sending?'  cried  the  lama.  'To  none  have  I 
spoken  of  my  search,  save  to  the  Priest  of  the  Images.  Who  art 
thou?' 

'Thy  chela?  said  Kim  simply,  sitting  on  his  heels.  '  I  have  never 
seen  anyone  like  to  thee  in  all  this  my  life.  I  go  with  thee  to 
Benares.  And,  too,  I  think  that  so  old  a  man  as  thou,  speaking 
truth  to  chance-met  people  at  dusk,  is  in  great  need  of  a  disciple.' 

'But  the  River  —  the  River  of  the  Arrow?' 

'Oh,  that  I  heard  when  thou  wast  speaking  to  the  Englishman. 
I  lay  against  the  door.' 

The  lama  sighed.     'I  thought  thou  hadst  been  a  guide  permitted. 


22  KIM 

Such  things  fall  sometimes  —  but  I  am  not  worthy.  Thou  dost 
not,  then,  know  the  river?' 

'Not  I.'  Kim  laughed  uneasily.  ' I  go  to  look  for  —  for  a  Bull 
—  a  Red  Bull  on  a  green  field  who  shall  help  me.'  Boylike,  if  an 
acquaintance  had  a  scheme,  Kim  was  quite  ready  with  one  of  his 
own;  and,  boylike,  he  had  really  thought  for  as  much  as  twenty 
minutes  at  a  time  of  his  father's  prophecy. 

'To  what,  child?'  said  the  lama. 

'God  knows,  but  so  my  father  told  me.  I  heard  thy  talk  in  the 
Wonder  House  of  all  those  new  strange  places  in  the  Hills,  and  if 
one  so  old  and  so  little  —  so  used  to  truth-telling  —  may  go  out 
for  the  small  matter  of  a  river,  it  seemed  to  me  that  I  too  must  go 
a  travelling.  If  it  is  our  fate  to  find  those  things  we  shall  find 
them  —  thou,  thy  river;  and  I,  my  bull,  and  the  strong  Pillars  and 
some  other  matters  that  I  forget.' 

'It  is  not  pillars  but  a  wheel  from  which  I  would  be  free,'  said 
the  lama. 

'That  is  all  one.  Perhaps  they  will  make  me  a  king,'  said  Kim, 
serenely  prepared  for  anything. 

'I  will  teach  thee  other  and  better  desires  upon  the  road,' the 
lama  replied  in  the  voice  of  authority.  'Let  us  go  to  Benares.' 

'Not  by  night.     Thieves  are  abroad.     Wait  till  the  day.' 

'But  there  is  noplace  to  sleep.'  The  old  man  was  used  to  the 
order  of  his  monastery,  and  though  he  slept  on  the  ground,  as  the 
Rule  decrees,  preferred  a  decency  in  these  things. 

'We  shall  get  good  lodging  at  the  Kashmir  Serai,'  said  Kim, 
laughing  at  his  perplexity.  'I  have  a  friend  there.  Come!' 

The  hot  and  crowded  bazars  blazed  with  light  as  they  made  their 
way  through  the  press  of  all  the  races  in  Upper  India,  and  the  lama 
mooned  through  it  like  a  man  in  a  dream.  It  was  his  first  ex- 


KIM  23 

perience  of  a  large  city,  and  the  sight  of  the  crowded  tram-car  with 
its  continually  squealing  brakes  frightened  him.  Half  pushed, 
half  towed,  he  arrived  at  the  high  gate  of  the  Kashmir  Serai:  that 
huge  open  square  over  against  the  railway  station,  surrounded  with 
arched  cloisters  where  the  camel  and  horse  caravans  put  up  on  their 
return  from  Central  Asia.  Here  were  all  manner  of  Northern  folk, 
tending  tethered  ponies  and  kneeling  camels;  loading  and  unload- 
ing bales  and  bundles;  drawing  water  for  the  evening  meal  at  the 
creaking  well  windlasses;  piling  grass  before  the  shrieking,  wild- 
eyed  stallions;  cuffing  the  surly  caravan  dogs;  paying  off  camel 
drivers;  taking  on  new  grooms;  swearing,  shouting,  arguing,  and 
chaffering  in  the  packed  square.  The  cloisters,  reached  by  three 
or  four  masonry  steps,  made  a  haven  of  refuge  around  this  tur- 
bulent sea.  Most  of  them  were  rented  to  traders,  as  we  rent  the 
arches  of  a  viaduct;  the  space  between  pillar  and  pillar  being 
bricked  or  boarded  off  into  rooms,  which  were  guarded  by  heavy 
wooden  doors  and  cumbrous  native  padlocks.  Locked  doors 
showed  that  the  owner  was  away,  and  a  few  rude  —  sometimes  very 
rude  —  chalk  or  paint  scratches  told  where  he  had  gone.  Thus: 
'Lutuf  Allah  is  gone  to  Kurdistan.'  Below,  in  coarse  verse:  'O 
Allah,  who  sufferest  lice  to  live  on  the  coat  of  a  Kabuli,  why  hast 
thou  allowed  this  louse  Lutuf  to  live  so  long  ? ' 

Kim,  fending  the  lama  between  excited  men  and  excited  beasts, 
sidled  along  the  cloisters  to  the  far  end,  nearest  the  railway  station, 
where  Mahbub  AH,  the  horse-trader,  lived  when  he  came  in  from 
that  mysterious  land  beyond  the  Passes  of  the  North. 

Kim  had  had  many  dealings  with  Mahbub  in  his  little  life,  — 
especially  between  his  tenth  and  his  thirteenth  year,  —  and  the 
big  burly  Afghan,  his  beard  dyed  scarlet  with  lime  (for  he  was 
elderly  and  did  not  wish  his  gray  hairs  to  show),  knew  the  boy's 


24  KIM 

value  as  a  gossip.  Sometimes  he  would  tell  Kim  to  watch  a  man 
who  had  nothing  whatever  to  do  with  horses :  to  follow  him  for  one 
whole  day  and  report  every  soul  with  whom  he  talked.  Kim 
would  deliver  himself  of  his  tale  at  evening,  and  Mahbub  would 
listen  without  a  word  or  gesture.  It  was  intrigue  of  some  kind, 
Kim  knew;  but  its  worth  lay  in  saying  nothing  whatever  to  any- 
one except  Mahbub,  who  gave  him  beautiful  meals  all  hot  from 
the  cookshop  at  the  head  of  the  Serai,  and  once  as  much  as  eight 
annas  in  money. 

'He  is  here,'  said  Kim,  hitting  a  bad-tempered  camel  on  the 
nose.  'Ohe,  Mahbub  Ali!'  He  halted  before  a  dark  arch  and 
slipped  behind  the  bewildered  lama. 

The  horse-trader,  his  deep  embroidered  Bokhariot  belt  unloosed, 
was  lying  on  a  pair  of  silk  carpet  saddle-bags,  pulling  lazily  at  an 
immense  silver  hookah.  He  turned  his  head  very  slightly  at  the 
cry;  and  seeing  only  the  tall,  silent  lama,  chuckled  in  his  deep 
chest. 

'Allah!  A  lama!  A  red  lama!  It  is  far  from  Lahore  to  the 
Passes.  What  dost  thou  do  here?' 

The  lama  held  out  the  begging-bowl  mechanically. 

'God's  curse  on  all  unbelievers,'  said  Mahbub.  'I  do  not  give 
to  a  lousy  Tibetan;  but  ask  my  Baltis  over  yonder  behind  the 
camels.  They  may  value  your  blessings.  Oh,  horse-boys,  here 
is  a  countryman  of  yours.  See  if  he  be  hungry.' 

A  shaven,  crouching  Balti,  who  had  come  down  with  the  horses, 
and  who  was  nominally  some  sort  of  degraded  Buddhist,  fawned 
upon  the  priest,  and  with  thick  gutturals  invited  the  holy  one  to  sit 
at  the  horse-boys'  fire. 

'Go! '  said  Kim,  pushing  him  lightly,  and  the  lama  strode  away, 
leaving  Kim  at  the  edge  of  the  cloister. 


KIM  25 

'Go!'  said  Mahbub  AH,  returning  to  his  hookah.  'Little  Hindu, 
run  away.  God's  curse  on  all  unbelievers!  Beg  from  those  of  my 
tail  who  are  of  thy  faith.' 

'Maharaj,'  whined  Kim,  using  the  Hindu  form  of  address,  and 
thoroughly  enjoying  the  situation;  'my  father  is  dead  —  my  mother 
is  dead  —  my  stomach  is  empty.' 

'Beg  from  my  men  among  the  horses,  I  say.  There  must  be 
some  Hindus  in  my  tail.' 

'Oh,  Mahbub  AH,  but  am  /  a  Hindu?'  said  Kim  in  English. 

The  trader  gave  no  sign  of  astonishment,  but  looked  under  his 
shaggy  eyebrows. 

'Little  Friend  of  all  the  World,'  said  he,  'what  is  this?' 

'Nothing.  I  am  now  that  holy  man's  disciple;  and  we  go  a  pil- 
grimage together  —  to  Benares,  he  says.  He  is  quite  mad,  and  I 
am  tired  of  Lahore  city.  I  wish  new  air  and  water.' 

'  But  for  whom  dost  thou  work  ?  Why  come  to  me  ? '  The  voice 
was  harsh  with  suspicion. 

'To  whom  else  should  I  come.  I  have  no  money.  It  is  not  good 
to  go  about  without  money. '  Thou  wilt  sell  many  horses  to  the 
officers.  They  are  very  fine  horses,  these  new  ones:  I  have  seen 
them.  Give  me  a  rupee,  Mahbub  AH,  and  when  I  come  to  my 
wealth  I  will  give  thee  a  bond  and  pay.' 

'Um,'  said  Mahbub  AH,  thinking  swiftly.  'Thou  hast  never 
before  lied  to  me.  Call  that  lama  —  stand  back  in  the  dark.' 

'Oh,  our  tales  will  agree,'  said  Kim  laughing. 

'We  go  to  Benares,'  said  the  lama,  as  soon  as  he  understood  the 
drift  of  Mahbub  AH's  questions.  'The  boy  and  I.  I  go  to  seek 
for  a  certain  river.' 

'Maybe  —  but  the  boy?' 

'He  is  my  disciple.     He  was  sent,  I  think,  to  guide  me  to  that 


26  KIM 

river.  Sitting  under  a  gun  was  I  when  he  came  suddenly.  Such 
things  have  befallen  the  fortunate  to  whom  guidance  was  allowed. 
But  I  remember  now,  he  said  he  was  of  this  world  —  a  Hindu.' 

'And  his  name?' 

'That  I  did  not  ask.     Is  he  not  my  disciple?' 

'His  country  —  his  race  —  his  village?  Mussalman  —  Sikh  — 
Hindu  —  Jain  —  low  caste  or  high?' 

'Why  should  I  ask?  There  is  neither  high  nor  low  in  the  Middle 
Way.  If  he  is  my  chela  —  does  —  will  —  can  any  one  take  him 
from  me?  for,  look  you,  without  him  I  shall  not  find  my  river.'  He 
wagged  his  head  solemnly. 

'None  shall  take  him  from  thee.  Go,  sit  among  my  Baltis,' 
said  Mahbub  Ali,  and  the  lama  drifted  off,  soothed  by  the 
promise. 

'Is  he  not  quite  mad?'  said  Kim,  coming  forward  to  the  light 
again.  'Why  should  I  lie  to  thee,  Hajji?' 

Mahbub  puffed  his  hookah  in  silence.  Then  he  began,  almost 
whispering:  'Umballa  is  on  the  road  to  Benares  —  if  indeed  ye 
two  go  there.' 

'Tick!  Tick!  I  tell  thee  he  does  not  know  how  to  lie  —  as  we 
two  know.' 

'And  if  thou  wilt  carry  a  message  for  me  as  far  as  Umballa,  I 
will  give  thee  money.  It  concerns  a  horse  —  a  white  stallion  which 
I  have  sold  to  an  officer  upon  the  last  time  I  returned  from  the 
Passes.  But  then  —  stand  nearer  and  hold  up  hands  as  begging 
-  the  pedigree  of  the  white  stallion  was  not  fully  established,  and 
that  officer,  who  is  now  at  Umballa,  bade  me  make  it  clear.'  (Mah- 
bub here  described  the  horse  and  the  appearance  of  the  officer.) 
'  So  the  message  to  that  officer  will  be :  "  The  pedigree  of  the  white 
stallion  is  fully  established."  By  this  will  he  know  that  thou  com- 


KIM  27 

est  from  me.  He  will  then  say:  "What  proof  hast  thou?"  and 
thouwilt  answer:  "Mahbub  All  has  given  me  the  proof.'1 

'And  all  for  the  sake  of  a  white  stallion,'  said  Kim,  with  a  giggle, 
his  eyes  aflame. 

'And  that  pedigree  I  will  give  thee  now  —  in  my  own  fashion  — 
with  some  hard  words  as  well.'  A  shadow  passed  behind  Kim,  and 
a  feeding  camel.  Mahbub  AH  raised  his  voice. 

'Allah!  Art  thou  the  only  beggar  in  the  city?  Thy  mother  is 
dead.  Thy  father  is  dead.  So  is  it  with  all  of  them.  Well,  well 

'  he  turned  as  feeling  on  the  floor  beside  him  and  tossed  a  flap 

of  soft,  greasy  Mussalman  bread  to  the  boy.  '  Go  and  lie  down 
among  my  horse-boys  for  to-night  —  thou  and  the  lama.  To- 
morrow I  may  find  thee  a  service.' 

Kim  slunk  away,  his  teeth  in  the  bread,  and,  as  he  expected,  he 
found  a  small  wad  of  folded  tissue  paper  wrapped  in  oil-skin,  with 
three  silver  rupees  —  enormous  largesse.  He  smiled  and  thrust 
money  and  paper  into  his  leather  amulet-case.  The  lama,  sumpt- 
uously fed  by  Mahbub's  Baltis,  was  already  asleep  in  a  corner  of 
one  of  the  stalls.  Kim  lay  down  beside  him  and  laughed.  He 
knew  he  had  rendered  a  service  to  Mahbub  Ali,  and  not  for  one 
little  minute  did  he  believe  the  tale  of  the  stallion's  pedigree. 

But  Kim  did  not  suspect  that  Mahbub  Ali,  known  as  one  of  the 
best  horse-dealers  in  the  Punjab,  a  wealthy  and  enterprising  trader, 
whose  caravans  penetrated  far  and  far  into  the  Back  of  Beyond, 
was  registered  in  one  of  the  locked  books  of  the  Indian  departments 
as  €.25. i B.  Twice  or  thrice  yearly  C.25  would  send  in  a  little 
story,  badly  told  but  most  interesting,  and  generally  —  it  was 
checked  by  the  statements  of  R.I 7  and  M-4  —  quite  true.  It  con- 
cerned all  manner  of  out-of-the-way  mountain  principalities,  ex- 
plorers of  nationalities  other  than  English,  and  the  gun-trade  — 


28  KIM 

was,  in  brief,  a  small  portion  of  that  vast  mass  of  'information  re- 
ceived' on  which  the  Indian  Government  acts.  But,  recently,  five 
confederated  kings,  who  had  no  business  to  confederate,  had  been 
informed  by  a  kindly  Northern  Power  that  there  was  a  leakage  of 
news  from  their  territories  into  British  India.  So  those  kings' 
prime  ministers  were  seriously  annoyed  and  took  steps,  after  the 
Oriental  fashion.  They  suspected,  among  many  others,  the  bully- 
ing, red-bearded  horse-dealer  whose  caravans  ploughed  through 
their  fastnesses  belly  deep  in  snow.  At  least,  his  caravan  that  sea- 
son had  been  ambushed  and  shot  at  twice  on  the  way  down,  when 
Mahbub's  men  accounted  for  three  strange  ruffians  who  might, 
or  might  not,  have  been  hired  for  the  job.  Therefore  Mahbub  had 
avoided  halting  in  the  insalubrious  city  of  Peshawur,  and  had  come 
through  without  stop  to  Lahore,  where,  knowing  his  country 
people,  he  anticipated  curious  developments. 

And  there  was  that  on  Mahbub  AH  which  he  did  not  wish  to 
keep  an  hour  longer  than  was  necessary  -  -  a  wad  of  closely  folded 
tissue  paper,  wrapped  in  oil-skin  —  an  impersonal,  unaddressed 
statement,  with  five  microscopic  pin-holes  in  one  corner,  that  most 
scandalously  betrayed  the  five  confederated  kings,  the  sympathetic 
Northern  Power,  a  Hindu  banker  in  Peshawur,  a  firm  of  gun- 
makers  in  Belgium,  and  an  important,  semi-independent  Moham- 
medan ruler  to  the  south.  This  last  was  R.iy's  work,  which  Mah- 
bub had  picked  up  beyond  the  Dora  Pass  and  was  carrying  in  for 
R.I 7,  who,  owing  to  circumstances  over  which  he  had  no  control, 
could  not  leave  his  post  of  observation.  Dynamite  was  milky  and 
innocuous  beside  that  report  of  C.25 ;  and  even  an  Oriental,  with  an 
Oriental's  views  of  the  value  of  time,  could  see  that  the  sooner  it 
was  in  the  proper  hands  the  better.  Mahbub  had  no  particular 
desire  to  die  by  violence,  because  two  or  three  family  blood-feuds 


KIM  29 

across  the  border  hung  unfinished  on  his  hands,  and  when  these 
scores  were  cleared  he  intended  to  settle  down  as  a  more  or  less 
virtuous  citizen.  He  had  never  passed  the  Serai  Gate  since  his 
arrival  on  the  previous  day,  but  had  been  ostentatious  in  sending 
telegrams  to  Bombay,  where  he  banked  some  of  his  money;  to 
Delhi,  where  a  sub-partner  of  his  own  clan  was  selling  horses  to  the 
agent  of  a  Rajputana  state;  and  to  Umballa,  where  an  Englishman 
was  excitedly  demanding  the  pedigree  of  a  white  stallion.  The 
public  letter-writer,  who  knew  English,  composed  excellent  tele- 
grams, such  as:  —  'Creighton,  Laurel  Bank,  Umballa.  —  Horse  is 
Arabian  as  already  advised.  Sorrowful  delayed-pedigree  which  am 
translating.1  And  later  to  the  same  address:  'Much  sorrowful 
delay.  Will  forward  •pedigree'  To  his  sub-partner  at  Delhi  he 
wired:  lLutuf  Allah.  —  Have  wired  two  thousand  rupees  your 
credit  Luchman  Narain's  bank.9  This  was  entirely  in  the  way 
of  trade,  but  every  one  of  those  telegrams  was  discussed  and 
rediscussed,  by  parties  who  conceived  themselves  to  be  inter- 
ested, before  they  went  over  to  the  railway  station  in  charge 
of  a  foolish  Balti  who  allowed  all  sorts  of  people  to  read  them 
en  route. 

When,  in  Mahbub's  own  picturesque  language,  he  had  muddied 
the  wells  of  inquiry  with  the  stick  of  suspicion,  Kim  had  dropped 
on  him,  as  from  Heaven;  and,  being  as  prompt  as  he  was  unscru- 
pulous, Mahbub  AH,  used  to  taking  all  sorts  of  gusty  chances, 
pressed  him  into  service  as  we  have  seen. 

A  wandering  lama  with  a  low-caste  boy-servant  might  attract  a 
moment's  interest  as  they  wandered  about  India,  the  land  of  pil- 
grims; but  no  one  would  suspect,  or  what  was  more  to  the  point, 
rob  them. 

He  called  for  a  new  light-ball  to  his  hookah,  and  considered  the 


3o  KIM 

case.  If  the  worst  came  to  the  worst,  and  the  boy  came  to  harm, 
the  paper  would  incriminate  nobody.  And  he  would  go  to  Um- 
balla  at  his  leisure  and  —  at  a  certain  risk  of  exciting  fresh  sus- 
picion —  repeat  his  own  tale  viva  voce  to  the  people  concerned. 

But  R.iy's  tale  was  the  kernel  of  the  whole  affair,  and  it  would 
be  distinctly  inconvenient  if  that  failed  to  come  to  hand.  How- 
ever, God  was  great,  and  Mahbub  Ali  felt  he  had  done  all  he  could 
for  the  time  being.  Kim  was  the  one  soul  in  the  world  who  had 
never  told  him  a  lie.  That  would  have  been  a  fatal  blot  on  Kim's 
character  if  Mahbub  had  not  known  that  to  others,  for  his  own 
ends  or  Mahbub's  business,  Kim  could  lie  like  an  Oriental. 

Then  Mahbub  Ali  rolled  across  the  serai  to  the  Gate  of  the  Har- 
pies who  paint  their  eyes  and  trap  the  stranger,  and  was  at  some 
pains  to  call  on  the  one  girl  who,  he  had  reason  to  believe,  was  a 
particular  friend  of  a  smooth-faced  Kashmiri  pundit  who  had  way- 
laid his  simple  Balti  in  the  matter  of  the  telegrams.  It  was  an 
utterly  foolish  thing  to  do;  because  they  fell  to  drinking  perfumed 
brandy  against  the  law  of  the  prophet,  and  Mahbub  grew  wonder- 
fully drunk,  and  the  gates  of  his  mouth  were  loosened,  and  he  pur- 
sued the  Flower  of  Delight  with  the  feet  of  intoxication  till  he  fell 
fiat  among  the  cushions,  where  the  Flower  of  Delight,  aided  by  a 
smooth-faced  Kashmiri  pundit,  searched  him  from  head  to  foot 
most  thoroughly. 

About  the  same  hour  Kim  heard  soft  feet  in  Mahbub's  deserted 
stall.  The  horse-trader,  curiously  enough,  had  left  his  door  un- 
locked, and  his  men  were  busy  celebrating  their  return  to  India  with 
a  whole  sheep  of  Mahbub's  bounty.  A  sleek  young  gentleman 
from  Delhi,  armed  with  a  bunch  of  keys  which  the  Flower  had  un- 
shackled from  the  senseless  one's  belt,  went  through  every  single 
box,  bundle,  mat,  and  saddle-bag  in  Mahbub's  possession  even 


KIM  31 

more  systematically  than  the  Flower  and  the  pundit  were  search- 
ing the  owner. 

'And  I  think,'  said  the  Flower  scornfully  an  hour  later,  one 
rounded  elbow  on  the  snoring  carcase,  'that  he  is  no  more  than  a  pig 
of  an  Afghan  horse-dealer,  with  no  thought  except  women  and 
horses.  Moreover,  he  may  have  sent  it  away  by  now  —  if  ever 
there  were  such  a  thing.' 

'Nay  —  in  a  matter  touching  Five  Kings  it  would  be  next  his 
black  heart,'  said  the  pundit.  'Was  there  nothing?' 

The  Delhi  man  laughed  and  resettled  his  turban  as  he  entered. 
'I  searched  between  the  soles  of  his  slippers  as  the  Flower  searched 
his  turban.  This  is  not  the  man  but  another  —  I  leave  little  unseen.' 

'They  did  not  say  he  was  the  very  man,'  said  the  pundit  thought- 
fully. 'They  said,  "Look  if  he  be  the  man,  since  our  councils  are 
troubled."  ' 

'That  country  is  full  of  horse-dealers  as  an  old  coat  of  lice. 
There  is  Sikandar  Khan,  Nur  Ali  Beg,  and  Farrukh  Shah  —  all 
heads  of  Kafilas  —  who  deal  there,'  said  the  Flower. 

'They  have  not  yet  come  in,'  said  the  pundit.  'Thou  must  en- 
snare them  when  they  come.' 

'Phew!'  said  the  Flower  with  deep  disgust,  rolling  Mahbub's 
head  from  her  lap.  'I  earn  my  money.  Farrukh  Shah  is  a  bear, 
Ali  Beg  a  swashbuckler,  and  old  Sikandar  Khan  —  yaie!  I  sleep 
now.  This  swine  will  not  stir  till  the  dawn.' 

When  Mahbub  woke,  the  Flower  talked  to  him  severely  on  the 
sin  of  drunkenness.  Asiatics  do  not  wink  when  they  have  out- 
manceuvred  the  enemy,  but  as  Mahbub  Ali  cleared  his  throat, 
tightened  his  belt,  and  staggered  forth  under  the  early  morning 
stars,  he  came  very  near  it. 

'What  a  colt's  trick,'  he  said  to  himself.     'As  if  every  girl  in 


32  KIM 

Peshawur  did  not  use  it!  But  'twas  prettily  done.  Now  God  he 
knows  how  many  more  there  be  upon  the  road  who  have  orders  to 
test  me  —  perhaps  with  the  knife.  So  it  stands  that  the  boy  must 
go  to  Umballa  —  and  by  rail  —  for  the  writing  is  something  ur- 
gent. I  abide  here,  following  the  Flower  and  drinking  wine  as  an 
Afghan  coper  should.' 

He  halted  at  the  stall  next  his  own.  His  man  lay  there  heavy 
with  sleep.  There  was  no  sign  of  Kim  or  the  lama. 

1  Up!'  He  stirred  a  sleeper.  'Whither  went  those  who  lay  here 
last  even  —  the  lama  and  the  boy?  Is  aught  missing?' 

'Nay,'  grunted  the  man,  'the  old  madman  rose  at  second  cock- 
crow saying  he  would  go  to  Benares,  and  the  young  one  led  him 
away.' 

'The  curse  of  Allah  on  all  unbelievers,'  said  Mahbub  heartily, 
and  climbed  into  his  own  stall,  growling  in  his  beard. 

But  it  was  Kim  who  had  wakened  the  lama  —  Kim  with  one 
eye  against  a  knot-hole  in  the  planking,  who  had  seen  the  Delhi 
man's  search  through  the  boxes.  This  was  no  common  thief  that 
turned  over  letters,  bills,  and  saddles  —  no  mere  burglar  who  ran  a 
little  knife  sideways  into  the  soles  of  Mahbub's  slippers,  or  picked 
the  seams  of  the  saddle-bags  so  deftly.  At  first  Kim  had  been 
minded  to  give  the  alarm  —  the  long-drawn  cho-or! — choor!  (thief ! 
thief!)  that  sets  the  serai  ablaze  of  nights;  but  he  looked  more  care- 
fully, and  hand  on  amulet,  drew  his  own  conclusions. 

'It  is  the  pedigree  of  that  made-up  horse-lie,'  said  he,  'the  thing 
that  I  carry  to  Umballa.  Better  that  we  go  now.  Hai!  Hai!' 
in  a  whisper  to  the  light-sleeping  old  man.  '  Come.  It  is  time  — 
time  to  go  to  Benares.' 

The  lama  rose  obediently,  and  they  passed  out  of  the  serai  like 
shadows. 


CHAPTER  II 

For  whoso  will,  from  Pride  released, 
Contemning  neither  man  nor  beast, 
May  hear  the  Soul  of  all  the  East 
About  him  at  Kamakura. 

KIM  led  to  the  fort-like  railway  station,  black  in  the  end  of  night; 
the  electrics  sizzling  over  the  goods-yard  where  day  and  night  they 
handle  the  heavy  Northern  traffic. 

'This  is  the  work  of  devils!'  said  the  lama,  recoiling  from  the  hol- 
low echoing  darkness,  the  glimmer  of  rails  between  the  masonry 
platforms,  and  the  maze  of  girders  above.  He  stood  in  a  gigantic 
stone  hall  paved,  it  seemed,  with  the  sheeted  dead  —  third- 
class  passengers  who  had  taken  their  tickets  overnight  and  were 
sleeping  in  the  waiting-rooms.  All  hours  of  the  twenty-four  are 
alike  to  Orientals,  and  their  passenger  traffic  is  regulated  accord- 
ingly. 

'This  is  where  the  fire-carriages  come.  One  stands  behind  that 
hole'  —  Kim  pointed  to  the  ticket-office  —  'who  will  give  thee  a 
paper  to  take  thee  to  Umballa.' 

'But  we  go  to  Benares,'  he  replied  petulantly. 

'All  one.     Benares  then.     Quick:  she  comes!' 

'Take  thou  the  purse.' 

The  lama,  not  so  well  used  to  trains  as  he  had  pretended,  started 
as  the  3.25  A.M.  south  bound  roared  in.  The  sleepers  sprung  to 
life,  and  the  station  filled  with  clamour  and  shoutings,  cries  of 
water  and  sweetmeat  venders,  shouts  of  native  policemen,  and 

33 


34  KIM 

shrill  yells  of  women  gathering  up  their  baskets,  their  families,  and 
their  husbands. 

*  It  is  the  train  —  only  the  te-rain.  It  will  not  come  here. 
Wait!'  Amazed  at  the  lama's  immense  simplicity  (he  had  handed 
him  a  small  bag  full  of  rupees),  Kim  asked  and  paid  for  a  ticket  to 
Umballa.  A  sleepy  clerk  grunted  and  flung  out  a  ticket  to  the 
next  station,  just  six  miles  distant. 

'Nay,'  said  Kim,  scanning  it  with  a  grin.  'This  may  serve  for 
farmers,  but  I  live  in  the  city  of  Lahore.  It  was  cleverly  done, 
babu.  Now  give  the  ticket  to  Umballa.' 

The  babu  scowled  and  dealt  the  proper  ticket. 

'Now  another  to  Amritzar,'  said  Kim,  who  had  no  notion  of 
spending  Mahbub  Ali's  money  on  anything  so  crude  as  a  paid  ride 
to  Umballa.  'The  price  is  so  much.  The  small  money  in  return 
is  just  so  much.  I  know  the  ways  of  the  te-rain.  .  .  .  Never 
did  yogi  need  chela  as  thou  dost,'  he  went  on  merrily  to  the  be- 
wildered lama.  'They  would  have  flung  thee  out  at  Mian  Mir  but 
for  me.  This  way!  Come!'  He  returned  the  money,  keeping 
only  one  anna  in  each  rupee  of  the  price  of  the  Umballa  ticket  as 
his  commission  —  the  immemorial  commission  of  Asia. 

The  lama  jibbed  at  the  open  door  of  a  crowded  third-class  car- 
riage. '  Were  it  not  better  to  walk?'  said  he  weakly. 

A  burly  Sikh  artisan  thrust  forth  his  bearded  head.  '  Is  he  afraid  ? 
Do  not  be  afraid.  I  remember  the  time  when  I  was  afraid  of  the 
train.  Enter!  This  thing  is  the  work  of  the  Government.' 

'I  do  not  fear,'  said  the  lama.     'Have  ye  room  within  for  two?' 

'There  is  no  room  even  for  a  mouse,'  shrilled  the  wife  of  a  well-to- 
do  cultivator  —  a  Hindu  Jat  from  the  rich  Jullunder  district.  The 
night  trains  are  not  as  well  looked  after  as  the  day  ones,  where  the 
sexes  are  very  strictly  kept  to  separate  carriages. 


KIM  35 

'Oh,  mother  of  my  son,  we  can  make  space,'  said  the  blue-tur- 
baned  husband.  'Pick  up  the  child.  It  is  a  holy  man,  see'st 
thou?' 

'And  my  lap  full  of  seventy  times  seven  bundles !  Why  not  bid 
him  sit  on  my  knee,  Shameless?  But  men  are  ever  thus!'  She 
looked  round  for  approval.  An  Amritzar  courtesan  near  the  win- 
dow sniffed  behind  her  head  drapery. 

'Enter!  Enter!'  cried  a  fat  Hindu  money-lender,  his  folded 
account-book  in  a  cloth  under  his  arm.  With  an  oily  smirk: 
'It  is  well  to  be  kind  to  the  poor.' 

'Ay,  at  seven  per  cent  a  month  with  a  mortgage  on  the  unborn 
calf,'  said  a  young  Dogra  soldier  going  south  on  leave;  and  they 
all  laughed. 

'Will  it  go  to  Benares?'  said  the  lama. 

'Assuredly.  Else  why  should  we  come?  Enter,  or  we  are  left,' 
cried  Kim. 

'See!'  shrilled  the  Amritzar  girl.  'He  has  never  entered  a  train. 
Oh  see!' 

'Nay,  help,'  said  the  cultivator,  putting  out  a  large  brown  hand 
and  hauling  him  in.  'Thus  is  it  done,  father.' 

'But  —  but  —  I  sit  on  the  floor.  It  is  against  the  Rule  to  sit  on 
a  bench,'  said  the  lama.  '  Moreover,  it  cramps  me.' 

'I  say,'  began  the  money-lender,  pursing  his  lips,  'that  there  is 
not  one  rule  of  right  living  which  these  te-rains  do  not  cause  us  to 
break.  We  sit,  for  example,  side  by  side  with  all  castes  and 
peoples.' 

'Yea,  and  with  most  outrageously  shameless  ones,'  said  the  wife, 
scowling  at  the  Amritzar  girl  making  eyes  at  the  young  sepoy. 

'I  said  we  might  have  gone  by  cart  along  the  road,'  said  the  hus- 
band, 'and  thus  have  saved  some  money.' 


36  KIM 

'Yes  —  and  spent  twice  over  what  we  saved  on  food  by  the  way. 
That  was  talked  over  ten  thousand  times.' 

'Ay,  by  ten  thousand  tongues,'  grunted  he. 

'The  gods  help  us  poor  women  if  we  may  not  speak.  Oho!  He 
is  of  that  sort  which  may  not  look  at  or  reply  to  a  woman.'  For  the 
lama,  constrained  by  his  Rule,  took  not  the  faintest  notice  of  her. 
'And  his  disciple  is  like  him?' 

'Nay,  mother,'  said  Kim  most  promptly.  'Not  when  the  woman 
is  well-looking  and  above  all  charitable  to  the  hungry.' 

'A  beggar's  answer,'  said  the  Sikh,  laughing.  'Thou  hast 
brought  it  on  thyself,  sister!'  Kim's  hands  were  crooked  in  sup- 
plication. 

'And  whither  goest  thou?'  said  the  woman,  handing  him  the 
half  of  a  cake  from  a  greasy  package. 

'Even  to  Benares.' 

'Jugglers  belike?'  the  young  soldier  suggested.  'Have  ye  any 
tricks  to  pass  the  time?  Why  does  not  that  yellow  man  answer?' 

'Because,'  said  Kim  stoutly,  'he  is  holy,  and  thinks  upon  matters 
hidden  from  thee.' 

'That  may  be  well.  We  of  the  Loodhiana  Sikhs,'  he  rolled 
out  sonorously,  'do  not  trouble  our  heads  with  doctrine.  We 
fight.' 

'My  sister's  brother's  son  is  naik  (corporal)  in  that  regiment,' 
said  the  Sikh  craftsman  quietly.  'There  are  also  some Dogra  com- 
panies there.'  The  soldier  glared,  for  a  Dogra  is  of  other  caste 
than  a  Sikh,  and  the  banker  tittered. 

'They  are  all  one  to  me,'  said  the  Amritzar  girl. 

'That  we  believe,'  snorted  the  cultivator's  wife  malignantly. 

'Nay,  but  all  who  serve  the  Sirkar  with  weapons  in  their  hands 
are,  as  it  were,  one  brotherhood.  There  is  one  brotherhood  of  the 


KIM  37 

caste,  but  beyond  that  again'  —  she  looked  round  timidly  —  'the 
bond  of  the  Pulton  —  the  Regiment.' 

'My  brother  is  in  a  Jat  regiment,'  said  the  cultivator.  'Dogras 
be  good  men.' 

'The  Sikhs  at  least  were  of  that  opinion,'  said  the  soldier,  with 
a  scowl  at  the  placid  old  man  in  the  corner.  '  Thy  Sikhs  thought  so 
when  our  two  companies  came  to  help  them  at  the  Pirzai  Kotal  in 
the  face  of  eight  Afreed  standards  on  the  ridge  not  three  months 
gone.' 

He  told  the  story  of  a  border  action  in  which  the  Dogra  com- 
panies of  the  Loodhiana  Sikhs  had  acquitted  themselves  well.  The 
Amritzar  girl  smiled;  for  she  knew  the  tale  was  to  win  her  ap- 
proval. 

'Alas!'  said  the  cultivator's  wife  at  the  end.  'So  their  villages 
were  burnt  and  their  little  children  made  homeless.' 

'They  had  cut  up  our  dead.  They  paid  a  great  payment  after 
we  of  the  Sikhs  had  schooled  them.  So  it  was.  Is  this  Amrit- 
zar?' 

'Ay,  and  here  they  come  to  look  at  our  tickets,'  said  the  banker, 
fumbling  in  his  clothes. 

The  lamps  were  paling  in  the  dawn  when  the  half-caste  guard 
came  round.  Ticket-collecting  is  a  slow  business  in  the  East, 
where  people  secrete  their  tickets  in  all  sorts  of  curious  places. 
Kim  produced  his  and  was  told  to  get  out. 

'But  I  go  toUmballa/he  protested.     'I  go  with  this  holy  man.' 

'Thou  canst  go  to  Jehannum  for  aught  I  care.  This  ticket  is 
only  to  Amritzar.  Out!' 

Kim  burst  into  a  flood  of  tears,  protesting  that  the  lama  was  his 
father  and  his  mother,  that  he  was  the  prop  of  the  lama's  declining 
years,  and  that  the  lama  would  die  without  his  care.  All  the  car- 


38  KIM 

riage  bade  the  guard  be  merciful,  —  the  banker  was  specially 
strong  on  this  point,  —  but  the  guard  hauled  Kim  on  to  the  plat- 
form. The  lama  blinked,  he  could  not  overtake  the  situation,  and 
Kim  lifted  up  his  voice  and  wept  outside  the  carriage  window. 

'I  am  very  poor.  My  father  is  dead  —  my  mother  is  dead. 
Oh,  charitable  ones,  if  I  am  left  here,  who  shall  tend  that  old 
man  ? ' 

'What  —  what  is  this?'  the  lama  repeated.  'He  must  goto 
Benares.  He  must  come  with  me.  He  is  my  chela.  If  there  is 
money  to  be  paid ' 

'Oh,  be  silent,'  whispered  Kim;  'are  we  Rajahs  to  throw  away 
good  silver  when  the  world  is  so  charitable?' 

The  Amritzar  girl  stepped  out  with  her  bundles,  and  it  was  on 
her  that  Kim  kept  his  watchful  eye.  Ladies  of  that  persuasion,  he 
knew,  were  generous. 

'A  ticket- -a  little  ticket  to  Umballa  -  -O  Breaker  of  Hearts!' 
She  laughed.  'Hast  thou  no  charity?' 

'Does  the  holy  man  come  from  the  North?' 

'From  far  and  far  in  the  North  he  comes,'  cried  Kim.  'From 
among  the  Hills.' 

'There  is  snow  among  the  pine  trees  in  the  North  —  in  the  Hills 
there  is  snow.  My  mother  was  from  Kulu.  Get  thee  a  ticket. 
Ask  him  for  a  blessing.' 

'Ten thousand  blessings,'  shrilled  Kirn.  'O  Holy  One,  a  woman 
has  given  us  in  charity  so  that  I  can  come  with  thee  —  a  woman 
with  a  golden  heart.  I  run  for  the  tikkut.9 

The  girl  looked  up  at  the  lama,  who  had  mechanically  followed 
Kim  to  the  platform.  He  bowed  his  head  that  he  might  not  see 
her,  and  muttered  in  Tibetan  as  she  passed  on  with  the  crowd. 

'Light  come  —  light  go,'  said  the  cultivator's  wife  viciously. 


KIM  39 

'She  has  acquired  merit,'  returned  the  lama.     'Peradventure  it 


was  a  nun.' 


'Ay,  there  be  ten  thousand  such  nuns  in  Amritzar  alone.  Re- 
turn, old  man,  or  the  train  may  depart  without  thee,'  cried  the 
banker. 

'Not  only  was  it  sufficient  for  the  ticket,  but  for  a  little  food 
also,'  said  Kim,  leaping  to  his  place.  '  Now  eat,  Holy  One.  Look. 
Day  comes!' 

Golden,  rose,  saffron,  and  pink,  the  morning  mists  smoked  away 
across  the  flat  green  levels.  All  the  rich  Punjab  lay  out  in  the 
splendour  of  the  keen  sun.  The  lama  flinched  a  little  as  the  tele- 
graph posts  swung  by. 

'Great  is  the  speed  of  the  train,'  said  the  banker,  with  a 
patronizing  grin.  'We  have  gone  farther  since  Lahore  than 
thou  couldst  walk  in  two  days:  at  even,  we  shall  enter  Um- 
balla.' 

'And  that  is  still  far  from  Benares,'  said  the  lama  wearily,  mum- 
bling over  the  cakes  that  Kim  offered.  They  all  unloosed  their 
bundles  and  made  their  morning  meal.  Then  the  banker,  the 
cultivator,  and  the  soldier  prepared  their  pipes  and  wrapped  the 
compartment  in  choking,  acrid  smoke,  spitting  and  coughing  and 
enjoying  themselves.  The  Sikh  and  the  cultivator's  wife  chewed 
pan;  the  lama  took  snuff  and  told  his  beads,  while  Kim,  cross- 
legged,  smiled  over  the  comfort  of  a  full  stomach. 

'What  rivers  have  ye  by  Benares?'  said  the  lama  of  a  sudden 
to  the  carriage  at  large. 

'We  have  Gunga,'  returned  the  banker,  when  the  little  titter  had 
subsided. 

'What  others?' 

'What  need  for  other  than  Gunga?' 


40  KIM 

1  Nay,  but  in  my  mind  was  the  thought  of  a  certain  river  of 
healing.' 

'That  is  Gunga.  Who  bathes  in  her  is  made  clean  and  goes  to 
the  gods.  Thrice  have  I  made  pilgrimage  to  Gunga.'  He  looked 
round  proudly. 

'There  was  need/  said  the  young  sepoy  drily,  and  the  travellers' 
laugh  turned  against  the  banker. 

'  Clean  —  to  return  again  to  the  gods,'  the  lama  muttered.  *  And 
to  go  forth  on  the  round  of  lives  anew  —  still  tied  to  the  Wheel.' 
He  shook  his  head  testily.  '  But  maybe  there  is  a  mistake.  Who, 
then,  made  Gunga  in  the  beginning?' 

'The  gods.  Of  what  known  faith  art  thou?'  the  banker  said, 
appalled. 

'I  follow  the  Law  —  the  most  excellent  Law.  So  it  was  the 
gods  that  made  Gunga.  What  like  of  gods  were  they?' 

The  carriage  looked  at  him  in  amazement.  It  was  inconceiv- 
able that  any  one  should  be  ignorant  of  Gunga. 

'What  —  what  is  thy  god?'  said  the  money-lender  at  last. 

'Hear!'  said  the  lama,  shifting  the  rosary  to  his  hand.  'Hear: 
for  I  speak  of  Him  now!  O  people  of  Hind,  listen!' 

He  began  in  Urdu  the  tale  of  the  Lord  Buddha,  but,  borne  by  his 
own  thoughts,  slid  into  Tibetan  and  long-droned  texts  from  a 
Chinese  book  of  the  Buddha's  life.  The  gentle,  tolerant  folk 
looked  on  reverently.  All  India  is  full  of  holy  men  stammering 
gospels  in  strange  tongues;  shaken  and  consumed  in  the  fires  of 
their  own  zeal;  dreamers, babblers, and  visionaries:  as  it  has  been 
from  the  beginning  and  will  continue  to  the  end. 

'Um!'  said  the  soldier  of  the  Loodhiana  Sikhs.  'There  was  a 
Mohammedan  regiment  lay  next  to  us  at  the  Pirzai  Kotal,  and  a 
priest  of  theirs,  —  he  was,  as  I  remember,  a  naikt  —  when  the  fit 


KIM  41 

was  on  him,  spake  prophecies.  But  the  mad  all  are  in  God's  keep- 
ing. His  officers  overlooked  much  in  that  man.' 

The  lama  fell  back  on  Urdu,  remembering  that  he  was  in  a 
strange  land.  'Hear  the  tale  of  the  Arrow  which  our  Lord  loosed 
from  the  bow,'  he  said. 

This  was  much  more  to  their  taste,  and  they  listened  curiously 
while  he  told  it.  'Now,  O  people  of  Hind,  I  go  to  seek  that  river. 
Know  ye  aught  that  may  guide  me,  for  we  be  all  men  and  women  in 
evil  case.' 

'There  is  Gunga  —  and  Gunga  alone  —  who  washes  away  sin,' 
ran  the  murmur  round  the  carriage. 

'Though  past  question  we  have  good  gods  Jullunder-way,'  said 
the  cultivator's  wife,  looking  out  of  window.  '  See  how  they  have 
blessed  the  crops.' 

'To  search  every  river  in  the  Punjab  is  no  small.matter,'  said  her 
husband.  'For  me,  a  stream  that  leaves  good  silt  on  my  land 
suffices,  and  I  thank  Bhumia,  the  god  of  the  homestead.'  He 
shrugged  one  knotted,  bronzed  shoulder. 

'Think  you  our  Lord  came  so  far  north?'  said  the  lama,  turning 
to  Kim. 

'It  may  be,'  Kim  replied  soothingly,  as  he  spat  red  pan-juice  on 
the  floor. 

'The  last  of  the  Great  Ones,'  said  the  Sikh  with  authority,  'was 
Sikander  Julkarn  (Alexander  the  Great).  He  paved  the  streets  of 
Jullunder  and  built  a  great  tank  near  Umballa.  That  pavement 
holds  to  this  day;  and  the  tank  is  there  also.  I  never  heard  of  thy 
god.' 

'Let  thy  hair  grow  long  and  talk  Punjabi,'  said  the  young  soldier 
jestingly  to  Kim,  quoting  a  Northern  proverb.  'That  is  all  that 
makes  a  Sikh.'  But  he  did  not  say  this  very  loud. 


42  KIM 

The  lama  sighed  and  shrunk  into  himself,  a  dingy  shapeless 
mass.  In  the  pauses  of  their  talk  they  could  hear  the  low  droning 
— *  Om  mane  pudme  hum!  Om  mane  pudme  hum! ' — and  the 
thick  click  of  the  wooden  rosary  beads. 

'It  irks  me,'  he  said  at  last.  'The  speed  and  the  clatter  irk  me. 
Moreover,  my  chela,  I  think  that  may  be  we  have  overpassed  that 


river.' 


'Peace,  peace,'  said  Kim.  'Was  not  the  river  near  Benares? 
We  are  yet  far  from  the  place.' 

'But  —  if  our  Lord  came  north,  it  may  be  any  one  of  these  little 
ones  that  we  have  run  across.' 

'I  do  not  know.' 

'But  thou  wast  sent  to  me  —  wast  thou  sent  to  me?  —  for  the 
merit  I  had  acquired  over  yonder  at  Suchzen.  From  beside  the 
cannon  didst  thou  come  —  bearing  two  faces  —  and  two  garbs.' 

'Peace.  One  must  not  speak  of  these  things  here,'  whispered 
Kim.  'There  was  but  one  of  me.  Think  again  and  thou  wilt 
remember.  A  boy  —  a  Hindu  boy  —  by  the  great  green  cannon.' 

'But  was  there  not  also  an  Englishman  with  a  white  beard  — 
holy  among  images  —  who  himself  made  more  sure  my  assurance 
of  the  River  of  the  Arrow  ? ' 

'He  —  we  —  went  to  the  Ajaib-Gher  in  Lahore  to  pray  before 
the  gods  there,'  Kim  explained  to  the  openly  listening  company. 
'And  the  Sahib  of  the  Wonder  House  talked  to  him  —  yes,  this  is 
truth  -  -  as  a  brother.  He  is  a  very  holy  man,  from  far  beyond  the 
hills.  Rest  thou.  In  time  we  come  to  Umballa.' 

'But  my  river-  -the  river  of  my  healing?' 

'And  then,  if  it  please  thee,  we  will  go  hunting  for  that  river  on 
foot.  So  that  we  miss  nothing  —  not  even  a  little  rivulet  in  a 
field  side.' 


KIM  43 

'But  thou  hast  a  search  of  thine  own?'  The  lama  —  very 
pleased  that  he  remembered  so  well  —  sat  bolt  upright. 

'Ay,'  said  Kim,  humouring  him.  The  boy  was  entirely  happy 
to  be  out  chewing  pan  and  seeing  new  people  in  the  great  good- 
tempered  world. 

'It  was  a  bull  —  a  Red  Bull  that  shall  come  and  help  thee  — 
and  carry  thee  —  whither?  I  have  forgotten.  A  Red  Bull  on  a 
green  field,  was  it  not?' 

'Nay,  it  will  carry  me  nowhere,'  said  Kim.  'It  is  but  a  tale  I 
told  thee.' 

'What  is  this?'  the  cultivator's  wife  leaned  forward,  her  brace- 
lets clinking  on  her  arm.  'Do  ye  both  dream  dreams?  A  Red 
Bull  on  a  green  field,  that  shall  carry  thee  to  the  Heavens  —  or 
what?  Was  it  a  vision?  Did  one  make  a  prophecy?  We  have  a 
Red  Bull  in  our  village  behind  Jullunder  city,  and  he  grazes  by 
choice  in  the  very  greenest  of  our  fields!' 

'Give  a  woman  an  old  wife's  tale  and  a  weaver-bird  a  leaf  and  a 
thread,  they  will  weave  wonderful  things,'  said  the  Sikh.  'All 
holy  men  dream  dreams,  and  by  following  holy  men  their  dis- 
ciples attain  that  power.' 

'A  Red  Bull  on  a  green  field,  was  it?'  the  lama  repeated.  'In  a 
former  life  it  may  be  thou  hast  acquired  merit,  and  the  Bull  will 
come  to  reward  thee.' 

'Nay  —  nay  —  it  was  but  a  tale  one  told  to  me  —  for  a  jest  be- 
like. But  I  will  seek  the  Bull  about  Umballa,  and  thou  canst 
look  for  thy  river  and  rest  from  the  clatter  of  the  train.' 

'It  may  be  that  the  Bull  knows  —  that  he  is  sent  to  guide  us 
both,'  said  the  lama,  hopefully  as  a  child.  Then  to  the  company, 
indicating  Kim :  '  This  one  was  sent  to  me  but  yesterday.  He  is 
not,  I  think,  of  this  world.' 


44  KIM 

'Beggars  a  plenty  have  I  met,  and  holy  men  to  boot,  but  never 
such  a  yogi  nor  such  a  disciple,'  said  the  woman. 

Her  husband  touched  his  forehead  lightly  with  one  finger  and 
smiled.  But  the  next  time  the  lama  would  eat  they  took  care  to 
give  him  their  best. 

And  at  last  —  tired,  sleepy,  and  dusty  —  they  reached  Umballa 
City  Station. 

'We  abide  here  upon  a  law-suit,'  said  the  cultivator's  wife  to 
Kim.  '  We  lodge  with  my  man's  cousin's  younger  brother.  There 
is  room  also  in  the  courtyard  for  thy  yogi  and  for  thee.  Will  — 
will  he  give  me  a  blessing?' 

1O  holy  man !  A  woman  with  a  heart  of  gold  gives  us  lodging  for 
the  night.  It  is  a  kindly  land,  this  land  of  the  south.  See  how 
we  have  been  helped  since  the  dawn!' 

The  lama  bowed  his  head  in  benediction. 

'To  fill  my  cousin's  younger  brother's  house  with  wastrels/  the 
husband  began,  as  he  shouldered  his  heavy  bamboo  stick. 

'Thy  cousin's  younger  brother  owes  my  father's  cousin  something 
yet  on  his  daughter's  marriage-feast,'  said  the  woman  crisply.  'Let 
him  put  their  food  to  that  account.  The  yogi  will  beg,  I  doubt  not.' 

'Ay,  I  beg  for  him,'  said  Kim,  anxious  only  to  get  the  lama  under 
shelter  for  the  night,  that  he  might  seek  Mahbub  Ali's  Englishman 
and  deliver  himself  of  the  white  stallion's  pedigree. 

'Now,'  said  he,  when  the  lama  had  come  to  an  anchor  in  the 
inner  courtyard  of  a  decent  Hindu  house  behind  the  cantonment 
bazar,  'I  go  away  for  awhile  —  to  —  to  buy  us  victual  in  the  bazar. 
Do  not  stray  abroad  till  I  return.' 

'Thou  wilt  return?  Thou  wilt  surely  return?'  The  old  man 
caught  at  his  wrist.  'And  thou  wilt  return  in  this  very  same 
shape?  Is  it  too  late  to  look  to-night  for  the  river?' 


*  BEGGARS  A  PLENTY  HAVE  I  MET,  AND  HOLY  MEN  TO  BOOT,  BUT 
NEVER  SUCH  A  yogi  NOR  SUCH  A  DISCIPLE  ' 


KIM  45 

'Too  late  and  too  dark.     Be  comforted.     Think  how  far  thou  art 

i 

on  the  road  —  an  hundred  kos  from  Lahore  already.' 

'Yea  —  and  farther  from  my  monastery.  Alas!  It  is  a  great 
and  terrible  world.' 

Kim  slipped  out  and  away,  as  inconspicuous  a  figure  as  ever 
carried  his  own  and  a  few  score  thousand  other  folks'  fate  slung 
round  his  neck.  Mahbub  Ali's  directions  left  him  little  doubt  of 
the  house  in  which  his  Englishman  lived;  and  a  groom,  bringing  a 
dog-cart  home  from  the  Club,  made  him  quite  sure.  It  remained 
only  to  identify  his  man,  and  Kim  slipped  through  the  garden 
hedge  and  hid  in  a  clump  of  plumed  grass  close  to  the  verandah. 
The  house  blazed  with  lights,  and  servants  moved  about  tables 
dressed  with  flowers,  glass,  and  silver.  Presently  forth  came  an 
Englishman,  dressed  in  black  and  white,  humming  a  tune.  It  was 
too  dark  to  see  his  face,  so  Kim  tried  an  old  experiment. 

'Protector  of  the  Poor!' 

The  man  wheeled  toward  the  voice. 

1  Mahbub  AH  says ' 

'Hah !  What  says  Mahbub  Ali  ? '  He  made  no  attempt  to  look 
for  the  speaker,  and  that  showed  Kim  that  the  man  knew. 

'The  pedigree  of  the  White  Stallion  is  fully  established.' 

'What  proof  is  there?'  The  Englishman  switched  at  the  rose- 
hedge  in  the  side  of  the  drive. 

'Mahbub  Ali  has  given  me  this  proof.'  Kim  flipped  the  wad  of 
folded  paper  into  the  air,  and  it  fell  on  the  path  beside  the  man,  who 
put  his  foot  on  it  as  a  gardener  came  round  the  corner.  When  the 
man  passed  he  picked  it  up,  dropped  a  rupee,  —  Kim  could  hear 
the  clink,  —  and  strode  into  the  house,  never  looking  round. 
Swiftly  Kim  took  up  the  money;  but  for  all  his  training,  he  was 
Irish  enough  by  birth  to  reckon  silver  the  least  part  of  any  game. 


46  KIM 

What  he  desired  was  the  visible  effect  of  action.     Instead  of  slink- 
ing away,  he  lay  close  in  the  grass  and  wormed  nearer  to  the  house. 

He  saw  —  Indian  bungalows  are  open  through  and  through  — 
the  Englishman  return  to  a  small  dressing-room,  in  a  corner  of  the 
verandah,  that  was  half  office,  littered  with  papers  and  despatch- 
boxes,  and  sit  down  to  study  Mahbub  Ali's  message.  His  face,  by 
the  full  ray  of  the  kerosene  lamp,  changed  and  darkened,  and  Kim, 
used  as  every  beggar  must  be  to  watching  countenances,  took  good 
note. 

'Will!  Will,  dear!'  called  a  woman's  voice.  'You  ought  to  be 
in  the  drawing-room.  They'll  be  here  in  a  minute.' 

The  man  still  read  intently. 

'Will!'  said  the  voice,  five  minutes  later.  'He's  come.  I  can 
hear  the  troopers  in  the  drive.' 

The  man  dashed  out  bareheaded  as  a  big  landau  with  four  native 
troopers  behind  it  halted  at  the  verandah,  and  a  tall,  black-haired 
man,  erect  as  an  arrow  swung  out,  preceded  by  a  young  officer  who 
laughed  pleasantly. 

Flat  on  his  belly  lay  Kim,  almost  touching  the  high  wheels. 
His  man  and  the  black  stranger  exchanged  two  sentences. 

'Certainly  sir,'  said  the  young  officer  promptly.  'Everything 
waits  while  a  horse  is  concerned.' 

'We  shan't  be  more  than  twenty  minutes,'  said  Kim's  man. 
'You  can  do  the  honours  —  keep  'em  amused,  and  all  that.' 

'Tell  one  of  the  troopers  to  wait,'  said  the  tall  man,  and  they  both 
passed  into  the  dressing-room  together  as  the  landau  rolled  away. 
Kim  saw  their  heads  bent  over  Mahbub  Ali's  message,  and  heard 
the  voices  —  one  low  and  deferential,  the  other  sharp  and  decisive. 

'It  isn't  a  question  of  weeks.  It  is  a  question  of  days  —  hours 
almost,'  said  the  elder.  'I'd  been  expecting  it  for  some  time,  but 


KIM  47 

this'  —  he  tapped  Mahbub  All's  paper  —  'clenches  it.  Gorgan's 
dining  here  to-night,  isn't  he?' 

'Yes  sir,  and  Macklin  too.' 

'Very  good.  I'll  speak  to  them  myself.  The  matter  will  be 
referred  to  the  Council,  of  course,  but  this  is  a  case  where  one  is 
justified  in  assuming  that  we  take  action  at  once.  Warn  the  Pindi 
and  Peshawur  brigades.  It  will  disorganize  all  the  summer  reliefs, 
but  we  can't  help  that.  This  comes  of  not  smashing  them  thor- 
oughly the  first  time.  Eight  thousand  should  be  enough.' 

'What  about  artillery,  sir?' 

'I  must  consult  Macklin.' 

'Then  it  means  war?'. 

'No.  Punishment.  When  a  man  is  bound  by  the  action  of  his 
predecessor ' 

'But  C.25  may  have  lied.' 

'He  bears  out  the  other's  information.  Practically,  they  showed 
their  hand  six  months  back.  But  Devenish  would  have  it  there 
was  a  chance  of  peace.  Of  course  they  used  it  to  make  themselves 
stronger.  Send  off  those  telegrams  at  once,  —  the  new  code, 
not  the  old,  —  mine  and  Wharton's.  I  don't  think  we  need  keep 
your  wife  waiting  any  longer.  We  can  settle  the  rest  over  the 
cigars.  I  thought  it  was  coming.  It's  punishment  —  not 
war.' 

As  the  trooper  cantered  off  Kim  crawled  round  to  the  back  of 
the  house,  where,  going  on  his  Lahore  experiences,  he  judged  there 
would  be  food  —  and  information.  The  kitchen  was  crowded 
with  excited  scullions,  one  of  whom  kicked  him. 

'Aie,'  said  Kim,  feigning  tears.  'I  came  only  to  wash  dishes  in 
return  for  a  belly-full.' 

'All  Umballa  is  on  the  same  errand.     Get  hence.     They  go  in 


48  KIM 

now  with  the  soup.  Think  you  that  we  who  serve  Creighton  Sahib 
need  strange  scullions  to  help  us  through  a  big  dinner?' 

'It  is  a  very  big  dinner,'  said  Kim,  looking  at  the  plates. 

'Small  wonder.  The  guest  of  honour  is  none  other  than  the 
Jang-i-lat  Sahib  (the  Commander-in-Chief).' 

'Ho ! '  said  Kim,  with  a  guttural  note  of  wonder.  He  had  learned 
what  he  wanted,  and  when  the  scullion  turned  round  he  was  gone. 

'And  all  that  trouble,'  said  he  to  himself,  thinking  as  usual  in 
Hindustanee,  'for  a  horse's  pedigree.  Mahbub  AH  should  have 
come  to  me  to  learn  a  little  lying.  Every  time  before  that  I  have 
borne  a  message  it  concerned  a  woman.  Now  it  is  men.  The 
tall  man  said  that  they  will  loose  a  great  army  to  punish  some  one 
—  somewhere  —  the  news  goes  to  Pindi  and  Peshawur.  There  are 
also  guns.  Would  I  have  crept  nearer.  It  is  big  news!' 

He  returned  to  find  the  cultivator's  cousin's  younger  brother 
discussing  the  family  law-suit  in  all  its  bearings  with  the  cultivator 
and  his  wife  and  a  few  friends,  while  the  lama  dozed.  After  the 
evening  meal  some  one  passed  him  a  water-pipe;  and  Kim  felt  very 
much  of  a  man  as  he  pulled  at  the  smooth  cocoanut  shell,  his  legs 
spread  abroad  in  the  moonlight,  his  tongue  clicking  in  remarks 
from  time  to  time.  His  hosts  were  most  polite;  for  the  cultivator's 
wife  had  told  them  of  his  vision  of  the  Red  Bull,  and  of  his  prob- 
able descent  from  another  world.  Moreover,  the  lama  was  a 
great  and  venerable  curiosity.  The  family  priest,  an  old  tolerant 
Sarsut  Brahmin,  dropped  in  later,  and  naturally  started  a  theolog- 
ical argument  to  impress  the  family.  By  creed,  of  course,  they 
were  all  on  the  priest's  side,  but  the  lama  was  the  guest  and  the 
novelty.  His  gentle  kindliness,  and  his  impressive  Chinese  quo- 
tations, that  sounded  like  spells,  delighted  them  hugely;  and  in  this 
sympathetic  simple  air,  he  expanded  like  the  Bodhisat's  own  lotus, 


KIM  49 

speaking  of  his  life  in  the  great  hills  of  Suchzen  before,  as  he  said, 
'I  rose  up  to  seek  enlightenment.' 

Then  it  came  out  that  in  those  worldly  days  he  had  been  a  mas- 
ter hand  at  casting  horoscopes  and  nativities;  and  the  family  priest 
led  him  on  to  describe  his  methods;  each  giving  the  planets  names 
that  the  other  could  not  understand,  and  pointing  upward  as  the 
big  stars  sailed  across  the  dark.  The  children  of  the  house  tugged 
unrebuked  at  his  rosary;  and  he  clean  forgot  the  rule  which  for- 
bids converse  with  women,  as  he  talked  of  enduring  snows,  land- 
slips, blocked  passes,  the  remote  cliffs  where  men  find  sapphires 
and  turquoise,  and  that  wonderful  upland  road  that  leads  at  last 
into  Great  China  itself. 

'How  thinkest  thou  of  this  one?'  said  the  cultivator  aside  to  the 
priest. 

'A  holy  man  —  a  holy  man  indeed.  His  gods  are  not  the 
gods,  but  his  feet  are  upon  the  Way,'  was  the  answer.  'And 
his  methods  of  nativities,  though  that  is  beyond  thee,  are  wise 
and  sure.' 

'Tell  me,'  said  Kim  lazily,  'whether  I  find  my  Red  Bull  on  a  green 
field,  as  was  promised  me.', 

'What  knowledge  hast  thou  of  thy  birth  hour?'  the  priest  asked, 
swelling  with  importance. 

'Between  first  and  second  cockcrow  of  the  first  night  in  May. 

'Of  what  year?' 

'I  do  not  know;  but  upon  the  hour  that  I  cried  first  fell  the  great 
earthquake  in  Srinagur  which  is  in  Kashmir.'  This  Kim  had  from 
the  woman  who  took  care  of  him,  and  she  again  from  Kimball 
O'Hara.  The  earthquake  had  been  felt  in  India,  and  for  long  stood 
a  leading  date  in  the  Punjab. 

'Ai!'  said  a  woman  excitedly.     This  seemed  to  make  Kim's 


So  KIM 

supernatural  origin  more  certain.  'Was  not  such  an  one's  daugh- 
ter born  then ' 

'And  her  mother  bore  her  husband  four  sons  in  four  years  — 
all  likely  boys,'  said  the  cultivator's  wife,  sitting  outside  the  circle 
in  the  shadow. 

'None  reared  in  the  knowledge,'  said  the  family  priest,  'forget 
how  the  planets  stood  in  their  houses  upon  that  night.'  He 
began  to  draw  in  the  dust  of  the  courtyard.  'At  least  thou 
hast  good  claim  to  a  half  of  the  house  of  the  Bull.  How  runs  thy 
prophecy?' 

'Upon  a  day,'  said  Kim,  delighted  at  the  sensation  he  was  creat- 
ing, '  I  shall  be  made  great  by  means  of  a  Red  Bull  on  a  green  field, 
but  first  there  will  enter  two  men  making  all  things  ready.' 

'Yes;  thus  ever  at  the  beginning  of  a  vision.  A  thick  darkness 
that  clears  slowly;  anon  one  enters  with  a  broom  making  ready  the 
place.  Then  begins  the  Sight.  Two  men  —  thou  sayest?  Ay, 
ay.  The  Sun,  leaving  the  house  of  the  Bull,  enters  that  of  the 
Twins.  Hence  the  two  men  of  the  prophecy.  Let  us  now  con- 
sider. Fetch  me  a  twig,  little  ones.' 

He  knitted  his  brows,  scratched,  smoothed  out,  and  scratched 
again  in  the  dust  mysterious  signs  —  to  the  wonder  of  all  save  the 
lama,  who,  with  fine  instinct,  forbore  to  interfere. 

At  the  end  of  half  an  hour,  he  tossed  the  twig  from  him  with  a 
grunt. 

'Hm.  Thus  say  the  stars.  Within  three  days  come  the  two 
men  to  make  all  things  ready.  After  them  follows  the  Bull;  but 
the  sign  over  against  him  is  the  sign  of  War  and  armed  men.' 

'There  was  indeed  a  man  of  the  Loodhiana  Sikhs  in  the  carriage 
from  Lahore,'  said  the  cultivator's  wife  hopefully. 

'Tck!    Armed    men  —  many    hundreds.      What  concern   hast 


KIM  51 

thou  with  war?'  said  the  priest  to  Kim.  'Thine  is  a  red  and  an 
angry  sign  of  war  to  be  loosed  very  soon.' 

'None  —  none,'  said  the  lama  earnestly.  'We  seek  only  peace 
and  our  river.' 

Kim  chuckled,  remembering  what  he  had  overheard  in  the 
dressing-room.  Decidedly  he  was  a  favourite  of  the  stars. 

The  priest  brushed  his  foot  over  the  rude  horoscope.  'More 
than  this  I  cannot  see.  In  three  days  comes  the  Bull  to  thee,  boy.' 

'And  my  river,  my  river.'  pleaded  the  lama.  'I  had  hoped  his 
Bull  would  lead  us  both  to  the  river.' 

'Alas  for  that  wondrous  river,  my  brother,'  the  priest  replied. 
'Such  things  are  not  common.' 

Next  morning,  though  they  were  pressed  to  stay,  the  lama  in- 
sisted on  departure.  They  gave  Kim  a  large  bundle  of  good  food 
and  nearly  three  annas  in  copper  money  for  the  needs  of  the  road, 
and  with  many  blessings  watched  the  two  go  southward  in  the 
dawn. 

'Pity  it  is  that  these  and  such  as  these  could  not  be  freed  from 
the  Wheel  of  Things,'  said  the  lama. 

'Nay,  then  would  only  evil  people  be  left  on  the  earth,  and  who 
would  give  us  meat  and  shelter?'  quoth  Kim,  stepping  merrily 
under  his  burden. 

'Yonder  is  a  small  stream.  Let  us  look,'  said  the  lama,  and  he 
led  from  the  white  road  across  the  still  fields;  walking  into  a  very 
hornet's-nest  of  pariah  dogs. 


CHAPTER  III 

Yea,  voice  of  every  Soul  that  clung 
To  Life  that  strove  from  rung  to  rung 
When  Devadatta's  rule  was  young, 
The  warm  wind  brings  Kamakura. 

BEHIND  them  an  angry  farmer  brandished  a  bamboo  pole.  He 
was  a  market-gardener,  Arain  by  caste,  growing  vegetables  and 
flowers  for  Umballa  city,  and  well  Kim  knew  the  breed. 

1  Such  an  one,'  said  the  lama,  disregarding  the  dogs,  'is  impolite 
to  strangers,  intemperate  of  speech  and  uncharitable.  Be  warned 
by  his  demeanour,  my  disciple.' 

1  Ho,  shameless  beggars!'  shouted  the  farmer.  'Begone!  Get 
hence!' 

'We  go,'  the  lama  returned  with  quiet  dignity.  'We  go  from 
these  unblessed  fields.' 

'Ah,'  said  Kim,  sucking  in  his  breath.  'If  the  next  crops  fail, 
thou  canst  only  blame  thy  own  tongue.' 

The  man  shuffled  uneasily  in  his  slippers.  'The  land  is  full  of 
beggars,'  he  began,  half  apologetically. 

'And  by  what  sign  did'st  thou  know  that  we  would  beg  from 
thee,  O  Mali?'  said  Kim  tartly,  using  the  name  that  a  market- 
gardener  least  likes.  'All  we  sought  was  to  look  at  that  river 
beyond  the  field  there.' 

'River,  forsooth!'  the  man  snorted.  'What  city  do  ye  hail  from 
not  to  know  a  canal-cut?  It  runs  as  straight  as  an  arrow,  and  I 
pay  for  the  water  as  though  it  were  molten  silver.  There  is  a 

52 


KIM  53 

branch  of  a  river  beyond.  But  if  ye  need  water  I  can  give  that  — 
and  milk.' 

'Nay,  we  will  go  to  the  river,'  said  the  lama,  striding  out. 

1  Milk  and  a  meal,'  the  man  stammered,  as  he  looked  at  the 
strange  tall  figure.  'I  —  I  would  not  draw  evil  upon  myself  — 
or  my  crops;  but  beggars  are  so  many  in  these  hard  days.' 

'Take  notice,'  the  lama  turned  to  Kim.  'He  was  led  to  speak 
harshly  by  the  Red  Mist  of  anger.  That  clearing  from  his  eyes, 
he  becomes  courteous  and  of  an  affable  heart.  May  his  fields  be 
blessed.  Beware  not  to  judge  men  too  hastily,  O  farmer.' 

'I  have  met  holy  ones  who  would  have  cursed  thee  from  hearth- 
stone to  byre,'  said  Kim  to  the  abashed  man.  'Is  he  not  wise  and 
holy?  I  am  his  disciple.' 

He  cocked  his  nose  in  the  air  loftily  and  stepped  across  the 
narrow  field-borders,  swelling  with  importance. 

'There  is  no  pride,'  said  the  lama,  after  a  pause,  'there  is  no 
pride  among  such  as  follow  the  Middle  Way.' 

'But  thou  hast  said  he  was  low  caste  and  discourteous.' 

'Low  caste  I  did  not  say,  for  how  can  that  be  which  is  not? 
Afterward  he  amended  his  discourtesy,  and  I  forgot  the  offence. 
Moreover,  he  is  as  we  are,  bound  upon  the  Wheel  of  Things;  but 
he  does  not  tread  the  way  of  deliverance.'  He  halted  at  a  little 
runlet  among  the  fields,  and  considered  the  hoof-pitted  bank. 

'Now,  how  wilt  thou  know  thy  river?'  said  Kim,  squatting  in 
the  shade  of  some  tall  sugar-cane. 

'When  I  find  it,  an  enlightenment  will  surely  be  given.  This, 
I  feel,  is  not  the  place.  O  littlest  among  the  waters,  if  only  thou 
couldst  tell  me  where  runs  my  river!  But  be  thou  blest  to  make 
the  fields  bear!' 

'Look!     Look!'     Kim  sprang  to  his  side  and  dragged  him  back. 


S4  KIM 

A  yellow  and  brown  streak  glided  from  the  purple  rustling  stems 
to  the  bank,  stretched  its  neck  to  the  water,  drank,  and  lay  still  — 
a  big  cobra  with  fixed,  lidless  eyes. 

1 1  have  no  stick  —  I  have  no  stick,'  said  Kim.  (l  will  get  me 
one  and  break  his  back/ 

'Why?  He  is  upon  the  Wheel  as  we  are  —  a  life  ascending  or 
descending  —  very  far  from  deliverance.  Great  evil  must  the 
soul  have  done  that  is  cast  into  this  shape.' 

'I  hate  all  snakes,'  said  Kim.  No  native  training  can  quench 
the  white  man's  horror  of  the  Serpent. 

'Let  him  live  out  his  life.'  The  coiled  thing  hissed  and  half 
opened  his  hood.  'May  thy  release  come  soon,  brother,'  the  lama 
continued  placidly.  'Hast  thou  knowledge,  by  chance,  of  my 
river?' 

'Never  have  I  seen  such  a  man  as  thou  art,'  Kim  whispered, 
overwhelmed.  'Do  the  very  snakes  understand  thy  talk?' 

'Who  knows?'  He  passed  within  a  foot  of  the  cobra's  poised 
head.  It  flattened  itself  among  the  dusty  coils. 

'Come  thou!'  he  called  over  his  shoulder. 

'Not  I,' said  Kim.     'I  go  round.' 

'Come.     He  does  no  hurt.' 

Kim  hesitated  for  a  moment.  The  lama  backed  his  order  by 
some  droned  Chinese  quotation  which  Kim  took  for  a  charm.  He 
obeyed  and  stepped  across  the  rivulet,  and  the  snake  indeed  made 
no  sign. 

'Never  have  I  seen  such  a  man.'  Kim  wiped  the  sweat  from  his 
forehead.  'And  now,  whither  go  we?' 

'That  is  for  thee  to  say.  I  am  old,  and  a  stranger  —  far  from 
my  own  place.  But  that  the  rel-carriage  fills  my  head  with  the 
noises  of  devil-drums  I  would  go  in  it  to  Benares  now  .  .  .  yet 


KIM  55 

by   so    going   we    may   miss    the    river.      Let   us    find    another 
river.' 

Where  the  hard-worked  soil  gives  three  and  even  four  crops  a 
year  —  through  patches  of  sugar-cane,  tobacco,  long  white  radishes, 
and  nol-kol,  all  that  day  they  strolled  on,  turning  aside  to  every 
glimpse  of  water;  rousing  village  dogs  and  sleeping  villages  at 
noonday;  the  lama  replying  to  the  vollied  questions  with  an  un- 
swerving simplicity.  They  sought  a  River  —  a  River  of  miracu- 
lous healing.  Had  any  one  knowledge  of  such  a  stream  ?  Some- 
times men  laughed,  but  more  often  heard  the  story  out  to  the  end 
and  offered  them  a  place  in  the  shade,  a  drink  of  milk,  and  a  meal. 
The  women  were  always  kind,  and  the  little  children,  as  children 
are  the  world  over,  alternately  shy  and  venturesome.  Evening 
found  them  at  rest  under  the  village  tree  of  a  mud-walled,  mud- 
roofed  hamlet,  talking  to  the  headman  as  the  cattle  came  in  from 
the  grazing  grounds  and  the  women  prepared  the  day's  last  meal. 
They  had  passed  beyond  the  belt  of  market-gardens  round  hungry 
Umballa,  and  were  among  the  mile-wide  green  of  the  wheat. 

He  was  a  white-bearded  and  affable  elder,  used  to  entertaining 
strangers.  He  dragged  out  a  string  bedstead  for  the  lama,  set 
warm  cooked  food  before  him,  prepared  him  a  pipe,  and,  the 
evening  ceremonies  being  finished  in  the  village  temple,  sent  for 
the  village  priest. 

Kim  told  the  older  children  tales  of  the  size  and  beauty  of  Lahore, 
of  railway  travel,  and  such  like  city  things,  while  the  men  talked, 
slowly  as  their  cattle  chew  the  cud. 

'I  cannot  fathom  it,'  said  the  headman  at  last  to  the  priest. 
'How  readest  thou  this  talk?'  The  lama,  his  tale  told,  was  silently 
telling  his  beads. 

'He  is  a  Seeker,'  the  priest  answered.     'The  land  is  full  of  such. 


S6  KIM 

Remember  him  who  came  only  last  month  —  the  taquir  with  the 

tortoise  ? ' 

'Ay,  but  that  man  had  right  and  reason,  for  Krishna  Himself 
appeared  in  a  vision  promising  him  Paradise  without  the  burning- 
pyre  if  he  journeyed  to  Prayag.  This  man  seeks  no  god  who  is 
within  my  knowledge.' 

'Peace,  he  is  old:  he  comes  from  far  off,  and  he  is  mad,'  the 
smooth-shaven  priest  replied.  '  Hear  me.'  He  turned  to  the  lama. 
'Three  kos  (six  miles)  to  the  westward  runs  the  great  road  to 
Calcutta.' 

'But  I  would  go  to  Benares  —  to  Benares.' 

'And  to  Benares  also.  It  crosses  all  streams  on  this  side  of  Hind. 
Now  my  word  to  thee,  Holy  One,  is  rest  here  till  to-morrow.  Then 
take  the  road  (it  was  the  Grand  Trunk  Road  he  meant)  and  test 
each  stream  that  it  overpasses;  for,  as  I  understand,  the  virtue  of 
thy  river  lies  neither  in  one  pool  nor  place,  but  throughout  its 
length.  Then,  if  thy  gods  will,  be  assured  that  thou  wilt  come 
upon  thy  freedom.' 

'That  is  well  said.'  The  lama  was  much  impressed  by  the  plan. 
'We  will  begin  to-morrow,  and  a  blessing  come  to  thee  for  showing 
old  feet  such  a  near  road.'  A  deep  sing-song  Chinese  half-chant 
closed  the  sentence.  Even  the  priest  was  impressed,  and  the 
headman  feared  an  evil  spell;  but  none  could  look  at  the  lama's 
simple,  eager  face  and  doubt  him  long. 

'Seest  thou  my  chela?1  he  said,  diving  into  his  snuff-gourd 
with  an  important  sniff.  It  was  his  duty  to  repay  courtesy  with 
courtesy. 

'I  see  —  and  hear.'  The  headman  rolled  his  eye  wrhere  Kim 
was  chatting  to  a  girl  in  blue  as  she  laid  thorns  on  a  fire. 

'He  also  has  a  Search  of  his  own.     No  river,  but  a  Bull.     Yea, 


KIM  57 

a  Red  Bull  on  a  green  field  will  some  day  raise  him  to  honour.  He 
is,  I  think,  not  altogether  of  this  world.  He  was  sent  of  a  sudden 
to  aid  me  in  this  search,  and  his  name  is  Friend  of  all  the  World.' 

The  priest  smiled.  'Ho  there,  Friend  of  all  the  World,'  he  cried 
across  the  sharp-smelling  smoke,  'what  art  thou?' 

'This  holy  one's  disciple,'  said  Kim. 

'He  says  thou  art  a  bhut  (a  spirit).' 

'Can  bhuts  eat?'  said  Kim,  with  a  twinkle.     'For  I  am  hungry.' 

'It  is  no  jest,'  cried  the  lama.  'A  certain  astrologer  of  that  city 
whose  name  I  have  forgotten ' 

'That  is  no  more  than  the  city  of  Umballa  where  we  slept  last 
night,'  Kim  whispered  to  the  priest. 

'Ay,  Umballa  was  it?  He  cast  a  horoscope  and  declared  that 
my  chela  should  find  his  desire  within  two  days.  But  what  said 
he  of  the  meaning  of  the  stars,  Friend  of  all  the  World?' 

Kim  cleared  his  throat  and  looked  importantly  at  the  village 
graybeards. 

'The  meaning  of  my  Star  is  War,'  he  replied  pompously. 

Somebody  laughed  at  the  little  tattered  figure  strutting  on  the 
brickwork  plinth  under  the  great  tree.  Where  a  native  would 
have  lain  down,  Kim's  white  blood  set  him  upon  his  feet. 

'Ay,  war!'  he  answered. 

'That  is  a  sure  prophecy,'  rumbled  a  deep  voice.  'For  there  is 
always  war  along  the  border  —  as  I  know.' 

It  was  an  old,  withered  man,  who  had  served  the  Government  in 
the  days  of  the  Mutiny  as  a  native  officer  in  a  newly  raised  cavalry 
regiment.  The  Government  had  given  him  a  good  holding  in  the 
village,  and  though  the  demands  of  his  sons,  now  gray-bearded 
officers  on  their  own  account,  had  impoverished  him,  he  was  still 
a  person  of  consequence.  English  officials  —  Deputy  Commis- 


58  KIM 

sioners  even  —  turned  aside  from  the  main  road  to  visit  him,  and 
on  those  occasions  he  dressed  himself  in  the  uniform  of  ancient  days 
and  stood  up  like  a  ramrod. 

'But  this  shall  be  a  great  war  —  a  war  of  eight  thousand,'  Kim's 
voice  shrilled  across  the  quick-gathering  crowd. 

'Redcoats  or  our  own  regiments?'  the  old  man  snapped,  as 
though  he  were  asking  an  equal.  His  tone  made  men  respect  Kim. 

'Redcoats,'  said  Kim  at  a  venture.     'Redcoats  and  guns.' 

'But  —  but  the  astrologer  said  no  word  of  this,'  cried  the  lama, 
snuffing  prodigiously  in  his  excitement. 

'But  /  know.  The  word  has  come  to  me,  who  am  this  holy 
one's  disciple.  There  will  rise  a  war  —  a  war  of  eight  thousand 
redcoats.  From  Pindi  and  Peshawur  they  will  be  drawn.  This 
is  sure.' 

'The  boy  has  heard  bazar  talk,'  said  the  priest. 

'But  he  was  always  by  my  side,'  said  the  lama.  'How  should  he 
know?  I  did  not  know.' 

'He  will  make  a  clever  juggler  when  the  old  man  is  dead,'  mut- 
tered the  priest  to  the  headman.  'What  new  trick  is  this?' 

'A  sign.  Give  us  a  sign,'  thundered  the  old  soldier  suddenly. 
'If  there  were  war  my  sons  would  have  told  me.' 

'When  all  is  ready,  thy  sons,  doubt  not,  will  be  told.  But  it 
is  a  long  road  from  thy  sons  to  the  man  in  whose  hands  these  things 
lie.'  Kim  warmed  to  the  game,  for  it  reminded  him  of  experiences 
in  the  letter-carrying  line,  when,  for  the  sake  of  a  few  pice,  he  pre- 
tended to  know  more  than  he  knew.  But  now  he  was  playing  for 
better  things  —  the  sheer  excitement  and  the  sense  of  power.  He 
drew  a  deep  breath  and  went  on. 

'Old  man,  give  me  a  sign.  Do  baboos  order  the  goings  of  eight 
thousand  redcoats  —  with  guns?' 


KIM  59 

'No.'  Still  the  old  man  answered  as  though  Kim  were  an 
equal. 

1  Dost  thou  know  who  he  is  then  that  gives  the  order?' 

'I  have  seen  him.' 

'To  know  again?' 

'I  have  known  him  since  he  was  a  lieutenant  in  the  top-khana 
(the  Artillery).' 

'A  tall  man.  A  tall  man  with  black  hair,  walking  thus?'  Kim 
took  a  few  paces  in  a  stiff,  wooden  style. 

'Ay.  But  that  any  one  may  have  seen.'  The  crowd  were 
breathless-still  through  all  this  talk. 

'That  is  true,'  said  Kim.  'But  I  will  say  more.  Look  now. 
First  the  great  man  walks  thus.  Then  he  thinks  thus.'  (Kim 
drew  a  forefinger  over  his  forehead  and  downward  till  it  came  to 
rest  by  the  angle  of  the  jaw.)  'Anon  he  twitches  his  fingers  thus. 
Anon  he  thrusts  his  hat  under  his  left  armpit.'  Kim  illustrated 
the  motion  and  stood  like  a  stork. 

The  old  man  groaned,  inarticulate  with  amazement;  and  the 
crowd  shivered. 

'So  —  so  —  so.  But  what  does  he  when  he  is  about  to  give  an 
order?' 

'He  rubs  the  skin  at  the  back  of  his  neck  —  thus.  Then  falls 
one  finger  on  the  table  and  he  makes  a  small  sniffing  noise  through 
his  nose.  Then  he  speaks,  saying:  "Loose  such  and  such  a 
regiment.  Call  out  such  guns." 

The  old  man  rose  stiffly  and  saluted. 

'"For"'  —  Kim  translated  into  the  vernacular  the  clinching 
sentences  he  had  heard  at  the  dressing-room  at  Umballa  —  '"For," 
says  he,  "we  should  have  done  this  long  ago.  It  is  not  war  —  it 
is  a  chastisement.  Snff!"' 


60  KIM 

*  Enough.  I  believe.  I  have  seen  him  thus  in  the  smoke  of 
battles.  Seen  and  heard.  It  is  he!' 

'I  saw  no  smoke'  —Kim's  voice  shifted  to  the  rapt  sing-song 
of  the  wayside  fortune-teller.  'I  saw  this  in  darkness.  First 
came  a  man  to  make  things  clear.  Then  came  horsemen.  Then 
came  he,  standing  in  a  ring  of  light.  The  rest  followed  as  I  have 
said.  Old  man,  have  I  spoken  truth?' 

'It  is  he.     Past  all  doubt  it  is  he.' 

The  crowd  drew  a  long,  quavering  breath,  staring  alternately 
at  the  old  man,  still  at  attention,  and  ragged  Kim  against  the  purple 
twilight. 

'Said  I  not  —  said  I  not  he  was  from  the  other  world?'  cried 
the  lama  proudly.  'He  is  the  Friend  of  all  the  World.  He  is  the 
Friend  of  the  Stars!' 

'At  least  it  does  not  concern  us,'  a  man  cried.  'O  thou  young 
soothsayer,  if  the  gift  abides  with  thee  at  all  seasons,  I  have  a  red- 
spotted  cow.  She  may  be  sister  to  thy  Bull  for  aught  I  know  - 

'Or  I  care,'  said  Kim.  'My  Stars  do  not  concern  themselves 
with  thy  cattle.' 

'Nay,  but  she  is  very  sick,'  a  woman  struck  in.  'My  man  is  a 
buffalo,  or  he  would  have  chosen  his  words  better.  Tell  me  if  she 
recover?' 

Had  Kim  been  at  all  an  ordinary  boy,  he  would  have  carried  on 
the  play;  but  one  does  not  know  Lahore  city,  and  least  of  all  the 
faquirs  by  the  Taksali  Gate,  for  thirteen  years  without  also  knowing 
human  nature. 

The  priest  looked  at  him  sideways,  something  bitterly  —  a  dry 
and  blighting  smile. 

'Is  there  no  priest  then  in  the  village?  I  thought  I  had  seen  a 
great  one  even  now,'  cried  Kim. 


KIM  61 

'Ay —  but '  the  woman  began. 

'But  thou  and  thy  husband  hoped  to  get  the  cow  cured  for  a 
handful  of  thanks.'  The  shot  told:  they  were  notoriously  the 
closest-fisted  couple  in  the  village.  'It  is  not  well  to  cheat  the 
temples.  Give  a  young  calf  to  thy  own  priest,  and  unless  thy  gods 
are  angry  past  recall,  she  will  give  milk  within  a  month.' 

'A  master-beggar  art  thou,'  purred  the  priest  approvingly.  ' Not 
the  cunning  of  forty  years  could  have  done  better.  Surely  thou 
hast  made  the  old  man  rich?' 

'A  little  flour  —  a  little  butter  and  a  mouthful  of  cardamoms,' 
Kim  retorted,  flushed  with  the  praise,  but  still  cautious  —  'does 
one  grow  rich  on  that?  And,  as  thou  canst  see,  he  is  mad.  But 
it  serves  me  while  I  learn  the  road  at  least.' 

He  knew  what  the  faquirs  of  the  Taksali  Gate  were  like  when 
they  talked  among  themselves,  and  copied  the  very  inflection  of 
their  lewd  disciples. 

'Is  his  search,  then,  truth  or  a  cloak  to  other  ends?  It  may  be 
treasure.' 

'He  is  mad  —  many  times  mad.     There  is  nothing  else.' 

Here  the  old  soldier  hobbled  up  and  asked  if  Kim  would  accept 
his  hospitality  for  the  night.  The  priest  recommended  him  to  do 
so,  but  insisted  that  the  honour  of  entertaining  the  lama  belonged 
to  the  temple  —  at  which  the  lama  smiled  guilelessly.  Kim 
glanced  from  one  face  to  the  other,  and  drew  his  own  conclusions. 

'Where  is  the  money?'  he  whispered,  beckoning  the  old  man  off 
into  the  darkness. 

'  In  my  bosom.     Where  else  ? ' 

'Give  it  me.     Quietly  and  swiftly  give  it  me.' 

'But  why?     Here  is  no  ticket  to  buy.' 

'Am  I  thy  chela,  or  am  I  not?     Do  I  not  safeguard  thy  old  feet 


62  KIM 

about  the  ways?  Give  me  the  money  and  at  dawn  I  will  return 
it.'  He  slipped  his  hand  above  the  lama's  girdle  and  brought 
away  the  purse. 

'Be  it  so  —  be  it  so.'  The  old  man  nodded  his  head.  'This  is 
a  great  and  terrible  world.  I  never  knew  there  were  so  many 
men  alive  in  it.' 

Next  morning  the  priest  was  in  a  very  bad  temper,  but  the 
lama  was  quite  happy;  and  Kim  had  enjoyed  a  most  interest- 
ing evening  with  the  old  man,  who  brought  out  his  cavalry  sabre 
and,  balancing  it  on  his  dry  knees,  told  tales  of  the  Mutiny 
and  young  captains  thirty  years  in  their  graves,  till  Kim  dropped 
off  to  sleep. 

'Certainly  the  air  of  this  country  is  good,'  said  the  lama.  'I 
sleep  lightly,  as  do  all  old  men;  but  last  night  I  slept  unwaking  till 
broad  day.  Even  now  I  am  heavy.' 

'Drink  a  long  draught  of  milk,'  said  Kim,  who  had  carried  not 
a  few  such  remedies  to  opium-smokers  of  his  acquaintance.  'It 
is  time  to  take  the  road  again.' 

'The  long  road  that  overpasses  all  the  rivers  of  Hind,'  said  the 
lama  gaily.  'Let  us  go.  But  how  thinkest  thou,  chela,  to  recom- 
pense these  people,  and  especially  the  priest,  for  their  great  kind- 
ness? Truly  they  are  but-parast,  but  in  other  lives,  may  be,  they 
will  receive  enlightenment.  A  rupee  to  the  temple?  The  thing 
within  is  no  more  than  stone  and  red  paint,  but  the  heart  of  man 
we  must  acknowledge  when  and  where  it  is  good.' 

'Holy  One,  hast  thou  ever  taken  the  road  alone?'  Kim  looked 
up  sharply,  like  the  Indian  crows  so  busy  about  the  fields. 

'Surely,  child:  from  Kulu  to  Pathan  Kot  —  from  Kulu,  where 
my  first  chela  died.  When  men  were  kind  to  us  we  made  offerings, 
and  all  men  were  well-disposed  throughout  all  the  Hills.' 


HE  SAT  LONG-LEGGED  ON  THE  LITTLE  BEAST,  WITH  THE  BIG    SWORD  AT  HIS  SIDE  — 
HAND    DROPPED    ON    THE    POMMEL  —  STARING     FIERCELY     OVER    THE     FLAT    LANDS 


KIM  63 

'It  is  otherwise  in  Hind,'  said  Kim  drily.  'Their  gods  are  many 
armed  and  malignant.  Let  them  alone.' 

'I  would  set  thee  on  thy  road  for  a  little,  Friend  of  all  the  World 
—  thou  and  thy  yellow  man.'  The  old  soldier  ambled  up  the  vil- 
lage street,  all  shadowy  in  the  dawn,  on  a  gaunt,  scissor-hocked 
pony.  'Last  night  broke  up  the  fountains  of  remembrance  in  my 
so-dried  heart,  and  it  was  as  a  blessing  to  me.  Truly  there  is  war 
abroad  in  the  air.  I  smell  it.  See!  I  have  brought  my  sword.' 

He  sat  long-legged  on  the  little  beast,  with  the  big  sword  at  his 
side,  —  hand  dropped  on  the  pommel,  —  staring  fiercely  over  the 
flat  lands  toward  the  north.  'Tell  me  again  how  he  showed  in 
thy  vision.  Come  up  and  sit  behind  me.  The  beast  will  carry  two.' 

'I  am  this  holy  one's  disciple,'  said  Kim,  as  they  cleared  the 
village  gate.  The  villagers  seemed  almost  glad  to  be  rid  of  them, 
and  the  priest's  farewell  was  cold  and  distant.  He  had  wasted 
good  opium  on  a  man  who  carried  no  money. 

'That  is  well  spoken.  I  am  not  much  used  to  holy  men,  but 
respect  is  always  good.  There  is  no  respect  in  these  days  —  not 
even  when  a  Commissioner  Sahib  comes  to  see  me.  But  why 
should  one  whose  Star  leads  him  to  war  follow  a  holy  man  ? ' 

'But  he  is  a  holy  man,'  said  Kim  earnestly.  'In  truth,  and  in 
talk  and  in  act,  holy.  He  is  not  like  the  others.  I  have  never  seen 
such  an  one.  We  be  not  fortune-tellers,  or  jugglers,  or  beggars.' 

'Thou  art  not,  that  I  can  see;  but  I  do  not  know  him.  He 
marches  well,  too.' 

The  first  freshness  of  the  day  carried  the  lama  forward  with  long, 
easy,  camel-like  strides.  He  was  deep  in  meditation,  mechanically 
clicking  his  rosary. 

They  followed  the  rutted  and  worn  country  road  that  wound 
across  the  flat  between  the  great  dark-green  mango-groves,  the 


64  KIM 

line  of  the  snow-capped  Himalayas  faint  to  the  eastward.  All 
India  was  at  work  in  the  fields,  to  the  creaking  of  well-wheels,  the 
shouting  of  ploughmen  behind  their  cattle,  and  the  clamour  of 
the  crows.  Even  the  pony  felt  the  good  influence  and  almost 
broke  into  a  trot  as  Kim  laid  a  hand  on  the  stirrup-leather. 

'It  repents  me  that  I  did  not  give  a  rupee  to  the  shrine,'  said  the 
lama  on  the  last  bead  of  his  eighty-one. 

The  old  soldier  growled  in  his  beard,  so  that  the  lama  for  the 
first  time  was  aware  of  him. 

'Seekest  thou  the  river  also?'  said  he,  turning. 

'The  day  is  new,'  was  the  reply.  'What  need  of  a  river  save  to 
water  at  before  sundowrn  ?  I  come  to  show  thee  a  short  lane  to  the 
Big  Road.' 

'That  is  a  courtesy  to  be  remembered,  O  man  of  good  will;  but 
why  the  sword?' 

The  old  soldier  looked  as  abashed  as  a  child  interrupted  in  his 
game  of  make-believe. 

'The  sword,'  he  said,  fumbling  it.  'Oh,  that  was  a  fancy  of 
mine  —  an  old  man's  fancy.  Truly  the  police  orders  are  that  no 
man  must  bear  weapons  throughout  Hind,  but'  -he  cheered  up 
and  slapped  the  hilt  —  'all  the  constabeels  hereabout  know  me.J 

'It  is  not  a  good  fancy,'  said  the  lama.  'What  profit  to  kill 
men  ? ' 

'Very  little  —  as  I  know;  but  if  evil  men  were  not  now  and  then 
slain  it  would  not  be  a  good  world  for  weaponless  dreamers.  I  do 
not  speak  without  knowledge  who  have  seen  the  land  from  Delhi 
south  awash  with  blood.' 

'What  madness  was  that,  then?' 

'The  gods,  who  sent  it  for  a  plague,  alone  know.  A  madness  ate 
into  all  the  Army,  and  they  turned  against  their  officers.  That 


KIM  65 

was  the  first  evil,  but  not  past  remedy  if  they  had  then  held  their 
hands.  But  they  chose  to  kill  the  Sahibs'  wives  and  children. 
Then  came  the  Sahibs  from  over  the  sea  and  called  them  to  most 
strict  account.' 

'Some  such  rumour,  I  believe,  reached  me  once  long  ago.  They 
called  it  the  Black  Year,  as  I  remember.' 

'What  manner  of  life  hast  thou  led,  not  to  know  The  Year?  A 
rumour  indeed!  All  earth  knew  and  trembled.' 

'Our  earth  never  shook  but  once  —  upon  the  day  that  the  Ex- 
cellent One  received  Enlightenment.' 

'Umph!  I  saw  Delhi  shake  at  least;  and  Delhi  is  the  navel  of 
the  world.' 

'So  they  turned  against  women  and  children?  That  was  a  bad 
deed  for  which  the  punishment  cannot  be  avoided.' 

'  Many  strove  to  do  so,  but  with  very  small  profit.  I  was  then 
in  a  regiment  of  cavalry.  It  broke.  Of  six  hundred  and  eighty 
sabres  stood  fast  to  their  salt  —  how  many  think  you?  Three. 
Of  whom  I  was  one.' 

'The  greater  merit  to  thee.' 

'Merit!  We  did  not  consider  it  merit  in  those  days.  My 
people,  my  friends,  my  brothers  fell  from  me.  They  said:  "The 
time  of  the  English  is  accomplished.  Let  each  strike  out  a  little 
holding  for  himself."  But  I  had  talked  with  the  men  of  Sobraon, 
of  Chillianwallah,  of  Moodkie  and  Ferozeshah.  I  said:  "Abide 
a  little  and  the  wind  turns.  There  is  no  blessing  in  this  work." 
In  those  days  I  rode  seventy  miles  with  an  English  mem-sahib  and 
her  babe  on  my  saddle-bow.  (Wow!  That  was  a  horse  fit  for  a 
man!)  I  placed  them  in  safety,  and  back  came  I  to  my  officer  — 
the  one  that  was  not  killed  of  our  five.  "Give  me  work,"  said  I, 
"for  I  am  an  outcast  among  my  own  kin,  and  my  cousin's  blood  is 


66  KIM 

wet  on  my  sabre."  "Be  content,"  said  he.  "There  is  great  work 
forward.  When  this  madness  is  over  there  is  a  recompense." 

'Ay,  there  is  a  recompense  when  the  madness  is  over,  surely?' 
the  lama  muttered  half  to  himself. 

'They  did  not  give  medals  in  those  days  to  all  who  by  accident 
had  heard  a  gun  fired.  No!  In  nineteen  pitched  battles  was  I; 
in  six  and  forty  skirmishes  of  horse;  and  in  small  affairs  without 
number.  Nine  wounds  I  bear;  a  medal  and  four  clasps  and  the 
medal  of  an  Order,  for  my  captains,  who  are  now  generals,  remem- 
bered me  when  the  Kaiser-i-Hind  had  accomplished  fifty  years  of 
her  reign,  and  all  the  land  rejoiced.  They  said:  "Give  him  the 
order  of  Berittish  India."  I  carry  it  upon  my  neck  now.  I  have 
also  my  jaghir  (holding)  from  the  hands  of  the  State  —  a  free  gift 
to  me  and  mine.  The  men  of  the  old  days  —  they  are  now  Com- 
missioners —  come  riding  to  me  through  the  crops,  —  high  upon 
horses  so  that  all  the  village  sees,  —  and  we  talk  out  the  old  skir- 
mishes, one  dead  man's  name  leading  to  another.' 

'And  after?'  said  the  lama. 

'Oh,  afterward  they  go  away,  but  not  before  my  village  has 
seen.' 

'And  at  the  last  what  wilt  thou  do?' 

'At  the  last  I  shall  die.' 

'And  after?' 

'  Let  the  gods  order  it.  I  have  never  pestered  them  with  prayers : 
I  do  not  think  they  will  pester  me.  Look  you,  I  have  noticed  in 
my  long  life  that  those  who  eternally  break  in  upon  those  above 
with  complaints  and  reports  and  bellowings  and  weepings  are 
presently  sent  for  in  haste,  as  our  colonel  used  to  send  for  slack- 
jawed  down-country  men  who  talked  too  much.  No,  I  have  never 
wearied  the  gods.  They  will  remember  this,  and  give  me  a  quiet 


KIM  67 

place  where  I  can  drive  my  lance  in  the  shade,  and  wait  to  welcome 
my  sons:  I  have  no  less  than  three  —  ressaldar-majors  all  —  in  the 
regiments.' 

'And  they  likewise,  bound  upon  the  Wheel,  go  forth  from  life 
to  life  —  from  despair  to  despair,'  said  the  lama  below  his  breath, 
'hot,  uneasy,  snatching.' 

'Ay,'  the  old  soldier  chuckled.  'Three  ressaldar-majors  in  three 
regiments.  Gamblers  a  little,  but  so  am  I.  They  must  be  well- 
mounted;  and  one  cannot  take  the  horses  as  in  the  old  days  one  took 
women.  Well,  well,  my  holding  can  pay  for  all.  How  thinkest 
thou  ?  It  is  a  well-watered  strip,  but  my  men  cheat  me.  I  do  not 
know  how  to  ask  save  at  the  lance's  point.  Ugh  I  I  grow  angry 
and  I  curse  them,  and  they  feign  penitence,  but  behind  my  back  I 
know  they  call  me  a  toothless  old  ape.' 

'Hast  thou  never  desired  any  other  thing?' 

'Yes  —  yes  —  a  thousand  times!  A  straight  back  and  a  close- 
clinging  knee  once  more;  a  quick  wrist  and  a  keen  eye;  and  the 
power  that  makes  a  man.  Oh,  the  old  days  —  the  good  days  of 
my  strength!' 

'That  strength  is  weakness.' 

'It  has  turned  so;  but  fifty  years  since  I  could  have  proved  it 
otherwise,'  the  old  soldier  retorted,  driving  his  stirrup-edge  into 
the  pony's  lean  flank. 

'But  I  know  a  river  of  great  healing.' 

'I  have  drank  Gunga  water  to  the  edge  of  dropsy.  All  she  gave 
me  was  a  flux,  and  no  sort  of  strength.' 

'It  is  not  Gunga.  The  river  that  I  know  washes  from  all  taint 
of  sin.  Ascending  the  far  bank  one  is  assured  of  Freedom.  I  do 
not  know  thy  life,  but  thy  face  is  the  face  of  the  honourable  and 
courteous.  Thou  hast  clung  to  thy  Way,  rendering  fidelity  when 


68  KIM 

it  was  hard  to  give,  in  that  Black  Year  of  which  I  now  remember 
other  tales.  Enter  now  upon  the  Middle  Way,  which  is  the  path 
to  Freedom.  Hear  the  most  excellent  Law,  and  do  not  follow 
dreams.' 

'Speak  then,  old  man,'  the  soldier  smiled,  half  saluting.  'We 
be  all  babblers  at  our  age.' 

The  lama  squatted  under  the  shade  of  a  mango,  whose  shadow 
played  checkerwise  over  his  face;  the  soldier  sat  stiffly  on  the  pony; 
and  Kim,  making  sure  that  there  were  no  snakes,  lay  down  in  the 
notch  of  the  twisted  roots. 

There  was  a  drowsy  buzz  of  small  life  in  hot  sunshine,  a  cooing 
of  doves,  and  a  sleepy  drone  of  well-wheels  across  the  fields.  Slowly 
and  impressively  the  lama  began.  At  the  end  of  ten  minutes  the 
old  soldier  slid  from  his  pony,  to  hear  better  as  he  said,  and  sat  with 
the  reins  round  his  wrist.  The  lama's  voice  faltered  —  the  periods 
lengthened.  Kim  was  busy  watching  a  gray  squirrel.  When  the 
scolding  little  bunch  of  fur,  close  pressed  to  the  branch,  disappeared, 
preacher  and  audience  were  fast  asleep,  the  old  officer's  strong-cut 
head  pillowed  on  his  arm,  the  lama's  thrown  back  against  the  tree 
bole,  where  it  showed  like  yellow  ivory.  A  naked  child  toddled 
up,  stared,  and,  moved  by  some  quick  impulse  of  reverence,  made 
a  solemn  little  obeisance  before  the  lama  -  -  only  the  child  was  so 
short  and  fat  that  it  toppled  over  sideways,  and  Kim  laughed  at  the 
sprawling,  chubby  legs.  The  child,  scared  and  indignant,  yelled 
aloud. 

'Hai!  Hai!'  said  the  soldier,  leaping  to  his  feet.  'What  is  it? 
What  orders?  ...  It  is  ...  a  child!  I  dreamed  it  was 
an  alarm.  Little  one-  -little  one  —  do  not  cry.  Have  I  slept? 
That  was  discourteous  indeed!' 

'I  fear.     I  am  afraid,'  roared  the  child. 


KIM  69 

'What  is  it  to  fear?  Two  old  men  and  a  boy?  How  wilt  thou 
ever  make  a  soldier,  Princeling?' 

The  lama  had  waked  too,  but,  taking  no  notice  of  the  child, 
began  to  click  his  rosary. 

'What  is  that?'  said  the  child,  stopping  a  yell  midway.  'I  have 
never  seen  such  beads.  Give  them  me.' 

'Aha,'  said  the  lama,  smiling,  and  trailing  a  loop  of  it  on  the 
grass: 

'This  is  a  handful  of  cardamoms, 

This  is  a  lump  of  ghi: 
This  is  millet  and  chillies  and  rice, 
A  supper  for  thee  and  me!' 

The  child  shrieked  with  joy,  and  snatched  at  the  dark,  glancing 
beads. 

4 Oho!'  said  the  old  soldier.  'Whence  had  thou  that  song,  de- 
spiser  of  this  world  ? ' 

'I  learned  it  in  Pathan  Kot  —  sitting  on  a  doorstep,'  said  the 
lama  shyly.  'It  is  good  to  be  kind  to  babes.' 

'As  I  remember,  before  the  sleep  came  on  us,  thou  hadst  told 
me  that  marriage  and  bearing  were  darkeners  of  the  true  light, 
stumbling-blocks  upon  the  way.  Do  children  drop  from  heaven 
in  thy  country?  Is  it  the  Way  to  sing  them  songs?' 

'No  man  is  all  perfect,'  said  the  lama  gravely,  recoiling  the 
rosary.  'Run  now  to  thy  mother,  little  one.' 

'Hear  him!'  said  the  soldier  to  Kim.  'He  is  ashamed  for  that 
he  has  made  a  child  happy.  There  was  a  very  good  householder 
lost  in  thee,  my  brother.  Hai,  child ! '  He  threw  it  a  pice.  '  Sweet- 
meats are  always  nice.'  And  as  the  little  figure  capered  away  into 
the  sunshine:  'They  grow  up  and  become  men.  Holy  One,  I 
grieve  that  I  slept  in  the  midst  of  thy  preaching.  Forgive  me.' 


7o  KIM 

'We  be  two  old  men,'  said  the  lama.  'The  fault  is  mine.  I 
listened  to  thy  talk  of  the  world  and  its  madness,  and  one  fault 
led  to  the  next.' 

'Hear  him!  What  harm  do  thy  gods  suffer  from  play  with  a 
babe?  And  that  song  was  very  well  sung.  Let  us  go  on  and  I 
will  sing  thee  the  song  of  Nikal  Seyn  before  Delhi  —  the  old  song.' 

And  they  fared  out  from  the  gloom  of  the  mango  tope,  the  old 
man's  high,  shrill  voice  ringing  across  the  field,  as  wail  by  long- 
drawn  wail  he  unfolded  the  story  of  Nikal  Seyn  (Nicholson)  —  the 
song  that  men  sing  in  the  Punjab  to  this  day.  Kim  was  delighted, 
and  the  lama  listened  with  deep  interest. 

'  Ahil  Nikal  Seyn  is  dead  —  he  died  before  Delhi!  Lances  of 
North  take  vengeance  for  Nikal  Seyn.'  He  quavered  it  out  to  the 
end,  marking  the  trills  with  the  flat  of  his  sword  on  the  pony's 
rump. 

'And  now  we  come  to  the  broad  road,'  said  he,  after  receiving 
the  compliments  of  Kim;  for  the  lama  was  markedly  silent.  'It  is 
long  since  I  have  ridden  this  way,  but  thy  boy's  talk  stirred  me. 
See,  Holy  One  -  -  the  great  road  which  is  the  backbone  of  all 
Hind.  For  the  most  part  it  is  shaded,  as  here,  with  four  lines  of 
trees;  the  middle  road  -  -  all  hard  -  -  takes  the  quick  traffic.  In  the 
days  before  rail-carriages  the  Sahibs  travelled  up  and  down  here 
in  hundreds.  Now  there  are  only  country-carts  and  such  like. 
Left  and  right  is  the  rougher  road  for  the  heavy  carts  —  grain  and 
cotton  and  timber,  bhoosa,  lime  and  hides.  A  man  goes  in  safety 
here  -  -  for  at  every  few  kos  is  a  police-station.  The  police  .are 
thieves  and  extortioners  (I  myself  would  patrol  it  with  cavalry  — 
young  recruits  under  a  strong  leader),  but  at  least  they  do  not 
suffer  any  rivals.  All  castes  and  kinds  of  men  move  here.  Look! 
Brahmins  and  chumris,  bankers  and  tinkers,  barbers  and  bunnias, 


KIM  71 

pilgrims  and  potters  —  all  the  world  going  and  coming.  It  is  to 
me  as  a  river  from  which  I  am  withdrawn  like  a  log  after  a 
flood.' 

And  truly  the  Grand  Trunk  Road  is  a  wonderful  spectacle.  It 
runs  straight,  bearing  without  crowding  India's  traffic  for  fifteen 
hundred  miles  —  such  a  river  of  life  as  exists  nowhere  else  in  the 
world.  They  looked  down  the  green-arched,  shade-flecked  length 
of  it,  the  white  breadth  speckled  with  slow-pacing  folk;  and  the 
two-roomed  police-station  opposite. 

'Who  bears  arms  against  the  law?'  a  constable  called  out  laugh- 

t 

ingly,  as  he  caught  sight  of  the  soldier's  sword.  'Are  not  the 
police  enough  to  destroy  evil-doers?' 

'It  was  because  of  the  police  I  bought  it,'  was  the  answer.  'Does 
all  go  well  in  Hind  ? ' 

'Ressaldar  Sahib,  all  goes  well.' 

'I  am  like  an  old  tortoise,  look  you,  who  puts  his  head  out  from 
the  bank  and  draws  it  in  again.  Ay,  this  is  the  road  of  Hindustan. 
All  men  come  by  this  way.' 

'Son  of  a  swine,  is  the  soft  part  of  the  road  meant  for  thee  to 
scratch  thy  back  upon?  Father  of  all  the  daughters  of  shame  and 
husband  of  ten  thousand  virtueless  ones,  thy  mother  was  devoted 
to  a  devil,  being  led  thereto  by  her  mother;  thy  aunts  have  never 
had  a  nose  for  seven  generations!  Thy  sister!  —  What  owl's 
folly  told  thee  to  draw  thy  carts  across  the  road  ?  A  broken  wheel  ? 
Then  take  a  broken  head  and  put  the  two  together  at  leisure!' 

The  voice  and  a  venomous  whip-cracking  came  out  of  a  pillar 
of  dust  fifty  yards  away,  where  a  cart  had  broken  down.  A  tall, 
thin,  high  Kattiwar  mare,  with  eyes  and  nostrils  aflame,  rocketed 
out  of  the  jam,  snorting  and  wincing  as  her  rider  bent  her  across 
the  road  in  chase  of  a  shouting  man.  He  was  tall  and  gray- 


72  KIM 

bearded,  sitting  the  almost  mad  mare  as  a  piece  of  her,  and  scien- 
tifically lashing  his  victim  between  plunges. 

The  old  man's  face  lit  with  pride.  'My  child!'  said  he  briefly, 
and  strove  to  rein  the  pony's  neck  to  a  fitting  arch. 

1  Am  I  to  be  beaten  before  the  police  ? '  cried  the  carter.  '  Justice ! 
I  will  have  justice ' 

'Am  I  to  be  blocked  by  a  shouting  ape  who  upsets  ten  thousand 
sacks  under  a  young  horse's  nose?  That  is  the  way  to  ruin  a 
mare.' 

'He  speaks  truth.  He  speaks  truth.  But  she  follows  her  man 
close,'  said  the  old  man.  The  carter  ran  under  the  wheels  of  his 
cart  and  thence  threatened  all  sorts  of  vengeance. 

'They  are  strong  men,  thy  sons,'  said  the  policeman  serenely, 
picking  his  teeth. 

The  horseman  delivered  one  last  vicious  cut  with  his  whip  and 
came  on  at  a  canter. 

'My  father!'     He  reined  back  ten  yards  and  dismounted. 

The  old  man  was  off  his  pony  in  an  instant,  and  they  embraced 
as  do  father  and  son  in  the  East. 


CHAPTER  IV 

Good  Luck,  she  is  never  a  lady, 

But  the  cursedest  quean  alive. 

Tricksy,  wincing,  and  jady  — 

Kittle  to  lead  or  drive. 

Greet  her  —  she's  hailing  a  stranger! 

Meet  her  —  she's  busking  to  leave! 

Let  her  alone  for  a  shrew  to  the  bone 

And  the  hussy  comes  plucking  your  sleeve! 

Largesse!     Largesse,  O  Fortune! 

Give  or  hold  at  your  will. 

If  I've  no  care  for  Fortune, 

Fortune  must  follow  me  still! 

The  Wishing  Caps. 

THEN,  lowering  their  voices,  they  spoke  together.  Kim  came 
to  rest  under  a  tree,  but  the  lama  tugged  impatiently  at  his  elbow. 

'Let  us  go  on.     The  river  is  not  here.' 

'Hai  mai!  Have  we  not  walked  enough  for  a  little?  Our  river 
will  not  run  away.  Patience,  and  he  will  give  us  a  dole.' 

'That,'  said  the  old  soldier  suddenly,  'is  the  Friend  of  the  Stars. 
He  brought  me  the  news  yesterday.  Having  seen  the  very  man 
Himself,  in  a  vision,  giving  orders  for  the  war.' 

'Hm!'  said  his  son,  all  deep  in  his  broad  chest.  'He  came  by  a 
bazar-rumour  and  made  profit  of  it.' 

His  father  laughed.  'At  least  he  did  not  ride  to  me  begging  for 
a  new  charger  and  the  gods  know  how  many  rupees.  Are  thy 
brothers'  regiments  also  under  orders?' 

73 


74  KIM 

'I  do  not  know.  I  took  leave  and  came  swiftly  to  thee  in 
case  - 

'In  case  they  ran  before  thee  to  beg.  O  gamblers  and  spend- 
thrifts all !  But  thou  hast  never  yet  ridden  in  a  charge.  A  good 
horse  is  needed  there,  truly.  A  good  follower  and  a  good  pony  also 
for  the  marching.  Let  us  see  —  let  us  see.'  He  thrummed  on 
the  pommel. 

'This  is  no  place  to  cast  accounts  in,  my  father.  Let  us  go  to 
thy  house.' 

'At  least  pay  the  boy  then;  I  have  no  pice  with  me,  and  he 
brought  auspicious  news.  Ho!  Friend  of  all  the  World,  a  war 
is  toward  as  thou  hast  said.' 

'Nay,  as  I  know,  the  war,'  returned  Kim,  composedly. 

'Eh?'  said  the  lama,  clicking  his  beads,  all  eager  for  the  road. 

'My  master  does  not  trouble  the  stars  for  hire.  We  brought 
the  news  —  bear  witness,  we  brought  the  news,  and  now  we  go.' 
Kim  half-crooked  his  hand  at  his  side. 

The  son  tossed  a  silver  coin  through  the  sunlight,  grumbling 
something  about  beggars  and  jugglers.  It  was  a  four-anna  piece, 
and  would  feed  them  well  for  some  days.  The  lama,  seeing  the 
flash  of  the  metal,  droned  a  blessing. 

'Go  thy  way,  Friend  of  all  the  World,'  piped  the  old  soldier, 
wheeling  his  scrawny  mount.  'For  once  in  all  my  days  I  have 
met  a  true  prophet  —  who  was  not  in  the  Army.' 

Father  and  son  swung  round  together:  the  old  man  sitting  as 
erect  as  the  Ressaldar. 

A  Punjabi  constable  in  yellow  linen  trousers  slouched  across  the 
road.  He  had  seen  the  money  pass. 

'  Halt ! '  he  cried  in  impressive  English.  '  Know  ye  not  that  there 
is  a  takkus  of  two  annas  a  head,  which  is  four  annas,  on  those  who 


KIM  75 

enter  the  road  from  this  side-road?  It  is  the  order  of  the  Sirkar, 
and  the  money  is  spent  for  the  planting  of  trees  and  the  beautifica- 
tion  of  the  ways.' 

1  And  the  bellies  of  the  Police,'  said  Kim,  skipping  out  of  arm's 
reach.  '  Consider  for  a  while,  man  with  a  mud  head.  Think  you 
we  came  from  the  nearest  pond  like  the  frog,  thy  father-in-law? 
Hast  thou  ever  heard  the  name  of  thy  brother?' 

'And  who  was  he?  Leave  the  boy  alone,'  cried  a  senior  con- 
stable, immensely  delighted,  as  he  squatted  down  to  smoke  his 
pipe  in  the  verandah. 

'He  took  a  label  from  a  bottle  of  belaitee-pani  (soda-water),  and, 
affixing  it  to  a  bridge,  collected  taxes  for  a  month  from  those  who 
passed,  saying  that  it  was  the  Sirkar's  order.  Then  came  an 
Englishman  and  broke  his  head.  Ah,  brother,  I  am  a  town-crow, 
not  a  village-crow.' 

The  policeman  drew  back  abashed,  and  Kim  hooted  at  him  all 
down  the  road. 

'Was  there  ever  such  a  disciple  as  I?'  he  cried  merrily  to  the 
lama.  'All  earth  would  have  picked  thy  bones  within  ten  mile 
of  Lahore  city  if  I  had  not  guarded  thee.' 

'I  consider  in  my  own  mind  whether  thou  art  a  spirit,  sometimes, 
or  sometimes  an  evil  imp,'  said  the  lama,  smiling  slowly. 

'I  am  thy  chela.''  Kim  dropped  into  step  at  his  side  —  that 
indescribable  gait  of  the  long-distance  tramp  all  the  world 
over. 

'Now  let  us  walk,'  muttered  the  lama,  and  to  the  click  of  his 
rosary  they  walked  in  silence  mile  upon  mile.  The  lama,  as  usual, 
was  deep  in  meditation,  but  Kim's  bright  eyes  were  open  wide. 
This  broad,  smiling  river  of  life,  he  considered,  was  a  vast  improve- 
ment on  the  cramped  and  crowded  Lahore  streets.  There  were 


76  KIM 

new  people  and  new  sights  at  every  stride  —  castes  he  knew  and 
castes  that  were  altogether  out  of  his  experience. 

They  met  a  troop  of  long-haired,  strong-scented  Sansis  with 
baskets  of  lizards  and  other  unclean  food  on  their  backs,  the  lean 
dogs  sniffing  at  their  heels.  These  people  kept  their  own  side  of 
the  road,  moving  at  a  quick,  furtive  jog-trot,  and  all  other  castes 
gave  them  ample  room;  for  the  Sansi  is  deep  pollution.  Behind 
them,  walking  wide  and  stiffly  across  the  strong  shadows,  the 
memory  of  his  leg-irons  still  on  him,  strode  one  newly  released 
from  the  jail;  his  full  stomach  and  shiny  skin  to  prove  that  the 
Government  fed  its  prisoners  better  than  most  honest  men  could 
feed  themselves.  Kim  knew  that  walk  well,  and  made  shrill  jest 
of  it  as  they  passed.  Then  an  Akali,  a  wild-eyed,  wild-haired  Sikh 
devotee  in  the  blue-checked  clothes  of  his  faith,  with  polished- 
steel  quoits  glistening  on  the  cone  of  his  tall  blue  turban,  stalked 
past,  returning  from  a  visit  to  one  of  the  independent  Sikh  States, 
where  he  had  been  singing  the  ancient  glories  of  the  Khalsa  to 
College-trained  princelings  in  top-boots  and  white-cord  breeches. 
Kim  was  careful  not  to  irritate  that  man;  for  the  Akali's  temper  is 
short  and  his  arm  quick.  Here  and  there  they  met  or  were  over- 
taken by  the  gaily  dressed  crowds  of  whole  villages  turning  out  to 
some  local  fair;  the  women,  with  their  babes  on  their  hips,  walking 
behind  the  men,  the  older  boys  prancing  on  sticks  of  sugar-cane, 
dragging  rude  brass  models  of  locomotives  such  as  they  sell  for  a 
halfpenny,  or  flashing  the  sun  into  the  eyes  of  their  betters  from 
cheap  toy  mirrors.  One  could  see  at  a  glance  what  each  had 
bought;  and  if  there  were  any  doubt  it  needed  only  to  watch  the 
wives  comparing,  brown  arm  against  brown  arm,  the  newly  pur- 
chased dull  glass  bracelets  that  come  from  the  Northwest.  The 
merry-makers  stepped  slowly,  calling  one  to  the  other  and  stopping 


KIM  77 

to  haggle  with  sweetmeat-sellers,  or  to  make  a  prayer  before  one 
of  the  wayside  shrines  —  sometimes  Hindu,  sometimes  Mussul- 
man —  which  the  low  caste  of  both  creeds  shared  with  beautiful 
impartiality.  A  solid  line  of  blue  rising  and  falling  like  the  back  of 
a  caterpillar  in  haste,  would  swing  up  through  the  quivering  dust 
and  trot  past  to  a  chorus  of  shrill  cackling.  That  was  a  gang  of 
changars  —  the  women  who  have  taken  all  the  embankments  of 
all  the  Northern  railways  under  their  charge  —  a  flat-footed,  big- 
bosomed,  strong-limbed,  blue-petticoated  clan  of  earth-carriers, 
hurrying  north  on  news  of  a  job,  and  wasting  no  time  by  the  road. 
They  belong  to  the  caste  whose  men  do  not  count,  and  they  walked 
with  squared  elbows,  swinging  hips,  and  heads  on  high,  as  suits 
women  who  carry  heavy  weights.  A  little  later  a  marriage  pro- 
cession would  strike  into  the  Grand  Trunk  with  music  and  shout- 
ings, and  a  smell  of  marigold  and  jasmine  stronger  even  than  the 
reek  of  the  dust.  One  could  see  the  bride's  dhooly,  a  blur  of  red 
and  tinsel,  staggering  through  the  haze,  while  the  bridegroom's 
bewreathed  pony  turned  aside  to  snatch  a  mouthful  from  a  passing 
fodder-cart.  Then  Kim  would  join  the  Kentish  fire  of  good 
wishes  and  broad  jokes,  wishing  the  couple  a  hundred  sons  and  no 
daughters,  as  the  saying  is.  Still  more  interesting  and  more  to  be 
shouted  over  it  was  when  a  strolling  juggler  with  some  half-trained 
monkeys,  or  a  panting,  feeble  bear,  or  a  woman  who  tied  goats' 
horns  to  her  feet,  and  with  these  danced  on  a  slack-rope,  set  the 
horses  to  shying  and  the  women  to  shrill,  long-drawn  quavers  of 
amazement. 

The  lama  never  raised  his  eyes.  He  did  not  see  the  money- 
lender on  his  goose-rumped  pony,  hastening  along  to  collect  the 
cruel  interest;  or  the  long-shouting,  deep-voiced  little  mob  —  still 
in  military  formation  —  of  native  soldiers  on  leave,  rejoicing  to 


78  KIM 

be  rid  of  their  breeches  and  puttees,  and  saying  the  most  outrage- 
ous things  to  the  most  respectable  women  in  sight.  Even  the 
seller  of  Ganges-water  he  did  not  see,  and  Kim  expected  that  he 
would  at  least  buy  a  bottle  of  that  precious  stuff.  He  looked 
steadily  at  the  ground,  and  strode  as  steadily  hour  after  hour,  his 
soul  busied  elsewhere.  But  Kim  was  in  the  seventh  heaven  of 
joy.  The  Grand  Trunk  at  this  point  was  built  on  an  embankment 
to  guard  against  winter  floods  from  the  foothills,  so  that  one  walked, 
as  it  were,  a  little  above  the  country,  along  a  stately  corridor,  see- 
ing all  India  spread  out  to  left  and  right.  It  was  beautiful  to  be- 
hold the  many-yoked  grain  and  cotton  waggons  crawling  over  the 
country  roads:  one  could  hear  their  axles,  complaining  a  mile 
away,  coming  nearer,  till  with  shouts  and  yells  and  bad  words 
they  climbed  up  the  steep  incline  and  plunged  on  to  the  hard  main 
road,  carter  reviling  carter.  It  was  equally  beautiful  to  watch  the 
people,  little  clumps  of  red  and  blue  and  pink  and  white  and 
saffron,  turning  aside  to  go  to  their  own  villages,  dispersing  and 
growing  small  by  twos  and  threes  across  the  level  plain.  Kim 
felt  these  things,  though  he  could  not  give  tongue  to  his  feelings, 
and  so  contented  himself  with  buying  peeled  sugar-cane  and  spit- 
ting the  pith  generously  about  his  path.  From  time  to  time  the 
lama  took  snuff,  and  at  last  Kim  could  stand  the  silence  no  longer. 

'This  is  a  good  land-  -the  land  of  the  South!'  said  he.  'The 
air  is  good;  the  water  is  good.  Eh?' 

'And  they  are  all  bound  upon  the  Wheel,'  said  the  lama.  '  Bound 
from  life  after  life.  To  none  of  these  has  the  Way  been  shown.' 
He  shook  himself  back  to  this  world. 

'And  now  we  have  walked  a  weary  way,'  said  Kim.  'Surely 
we  shall  soon  come  to  a  parao  (a  resting  place).  Shall  we  stay 
there?  Look,  the  sun  is  sloping.' 


KIM  79 

'Who  will  receive  us  this  evening?' 

'That  is  all  one.  This  country  is  full  of  good  folk.  Besides,' 
—  he  sunk  his  voice  beneath  a  whisper,  —  'we  have  money.' 

The  crowd  thickened  as  they  neared  the  resting  place  which 
marked  the  end  of  their  day's  journey.  A  line  of  stalls  selling  very 
simple  food  and  tobacco,  a  stack  of  firewood,  a  police-station,  a 
well,  horse-trough,  a  few  trees,  and,  under  them,  some  trampled 
ground  dotted  with  the  black  ashes  of  old  fires,  are  all  that  mark 
a  parao  on  the  Grand  Trunk;  if  you  except  the  beggars  and  the 
crows  —  both  hungry. 

By  this  time  the  sun  was  driving  broad  golden  spokes  through  the 
lower  branches  of  the  mango  trees;  the  parakeets  and  doves  wTere 
coming  home  in  their  hundreds;  the  chattering,  gray-backed  Seven 
Sisters,  talking  over  the  day's  adventures,  walked  back  and  forth 
in  twos  and  threes  almost  under  the  feet  of  the  travellers;  and 
shufflings  and  scufflings  in  the  branches  showed  that  the  bats  were 
ready  to  go  out  on  the  night-picket.  Swiftly  the  light  gathered 
itself  together,  painted  for  an  instant  the  faces  and  the  cart-wheels 
and  the  bullocks'  horns  as  red  as  blood.  Then  the  night  fell, 
changing  the  touch  of  the  air,  drawing  a  low,  even  haze,  like  a 
gossamer  veil  of  blue,  across  the  face  of  the  country,  and 
bringing  out,  keen  and  distinct,  the  smell  of  wood-smoke  and 
cattle  and  the  good  scent  of  wheaten  cakes  cooked  on  ashes. 
The  evening  patrol  hurried  out  of  the  police-station  with  impor- 
tant coughings  and  reiterated  orders;  and  a  live  charcoal  ball 
in  the  cup  of  a  wayside  carter's  hookah  glowed  red  where  Kim's 
eye  mechanically  watched  the  last  flicker  of  the  sun  on  the  brass 
tweezers. 

The  life  of  the  parao  was  very  like  that  of  the  Kashmir  serai  on 
a  small  scale.  Kim  dived  into  the  happy  Asiatic  disorder  which, 


80  KIM 

if  you  only  allow  time,  will  bring  you  everything  that  a  simple 

man  needs. 

His  wants  were  few,  because,  since  the  lama  had  no  caste  scruples, 
cooked  food  from  the  nearest  stall  would  serve;  but,  for  luxury's 
sake,  Kim  bought  a  handful  of  dung-cakes  to  build  a  fire.  All 
about,  coming  and  going  round  the  little  flames,  men  cried  for  oil, 
or  grain,  or  sweetmeats,  or  tobacco,  jostling  one  another  while 
they  waited  their  turn  at  the  well;  and  under  the  men's  voices 
you  heard  from  halted,  shuttered  carts  the  shrill  squeals  and  gig- 
gles of  women  whose  faces  should  not  be  seen  in  public. 

Nowadays,  well-educated  natives  are  of  opinion  that  when  their 
women  folk  travel  -  -  and  they  visit  a  good  deal  -  -  it  is  better  to 
take  them  quickly  by  rail  in  a  properly  screened  compartment; 
and  that  custom  is  spreading.  But  there  are  always  those  of  the 
old  rock  who  hold  by  the  use  of  their  forefathers;  and,  above  all, 
there  are  always  the  old  women,  —  more  conservative  than  the 
men,  -  -  who  toward  the  end  of  their  days  go  a  pilgrimage.  They, 
being  withered  and  undesirable,  do  not,  under  certain  circum- 
stances, object  to  unveiling.  After  their  long  seclusion,  during 
which  they  have  always  been  in  business  touch  with  a  thousand 
outside  interests,  they  love  the  bustle  and  stir  of  the  open  road,  the 
gatherings  at  the  shrines,  and  the  infinite  possibilities  of  gossip 
with  like-minded  dowagers.  Very  often  it  suits  a  long-suffering 
family  that  a  strong-tongued,  iron-willed  old  lady  should  disport 
herself  about  India  in  this  fashion;  for  certainly  pilgrimage  is 
grateful  to  the  gods.  So  it  comes  about  that  in  the  most  remote 
places,  as  in  the  most  public,  you  find  some  knot  of  grizzled  servi- 
tors in  nominal  charge  of  an  old  lady  who  is  more  or  less  curtained 
and  hid  away  in  a  bullock-cart.  Such  men  are  staid  and  discreet, 
and  when  a  European  or  a  high-caste  native  is  near  will  net  their 


KIM  81 

charge  with  most  elaborate  precautions;  but  in  the  ordinary  hap- 
hazard chances  of  pilgrimage  the  precautions  are  not  taken.  The 
old  lady  is,  after  all,  intensely  human,  and  lives  to  look  upon  life. 

Kim  marked  down  a  gaily  ornamented  ruth  or  family  bullock- 
cart,  with  a  broidered  canopy  of  two  domes,  like  a  double-humped 
camel,  which  had  just  been  drawn  into  the  parao.  Eight  men 
made  its  retinue,  and  two  of  the  eight  were  armed  with  rusty  sabres 
—  sure  signs  that  they  followed  a  person  of  distinction,  for  the 
common  folk  do  not  bear  arms.  An  increasing  cackle  of  complaints 
orders,  and  jests,  and  what  to  a  European  would  have  been  bad 
language,  came  from  behind  the  curtains.  Here  was  evidently  a 
woman  used  to  command. 

Kim  looked  over  the  retinue  critically.  Half  of  them  were  thin- 
legged,  gray-bearded  Ooryas  from  down  country.  The  other  half 
were  duffle-clad,  felt-hatted  hillmen  of  the  North;  and  that  mixture 
told  its  own  tale,  even  if  he  had  not  overheard  the  incessant  spar- 
ring between  the  two  divisions.  The  old  lady  was  going  south  on  a 
visit  —  probably  to  a  rich  relative,  most  probably  to  a  son-in-law, 
who  had  sent  up  an  escort  as  a  mark  of  respect.  The  hillmen 
would  be  of  her  own  people  —  Kulu  or  Kangra  folk.  It  was  quite 
clear  that  she  was  not  taking  her  daughter  down  to  be  wedded, 
or  the  curtains  would  have  been  laced  home  and  the  guard  would 
have  allowed  no  one  near  the  car.  A  merry  and  a  high-spirited 
dame,  thought  Kim,  balancing  the  dung-cake  in  one  hand,  the 
cooked  food  in  the  other,  and  piloting  the  lama  with  a  nudging 
shoulder.  Something  might  be  made  out  of  the  meeting.  The 
lama  would  give  him  no  help,  but,  as  a  conscientious  chela,  Kim 
was  delighted  to  beg  for  two. 

He  built  his  fire  as  close  to  the  ruth  as  he  dared,  waiting  for  one 
of  the  escort  to  order  him  away.  The  lama  dropped  wearily  to 


82  KIM 

the  ground,  much  as  a  heavy  fruit-eating  bat  cowers,  and  returned 
to  his  rosary. 

'Stand  farther  off,  beggar!'  The  order  was  shouted  in  broken 
Hindustanee  by  one  of  the  hillmen. 

'Huh!  It  is  only  a  pahari*  (a  hillman),  said  Kim  over  his 
shoulder.  'Since  when  have  the  hillmen  owned  all  Hindustan?' 

The  retort  was  a  swift  and  brilliant  sketch  of  Kim's  pedigree 
for  three  generations. 

'Ah!'  Kim's  voice  was  sweeter  than  ever,  as  he  broke  the 
dung-cake  into  fit  pieces.  '  In  my  country  we  call  that  the  begin- 
ning of  love-talk.' 

A  harsh,  thin  cackle  behind  the  curtains  put  the  hillman  on  his 
mettle  for  a  second  shot. 

'Not  so  bad  -  -  not  so  bad,'  said  Kim,  with  calm.  'But  have  a 
care,  my  brother,  lest  we  -  -  we,  I  say  -  -  be  minded  to  give  a  curse 
or  so  in  return.  And  our  curses  have  the  knack  of  biting  home.' 

The  Ooryas  laughed;  the  hillman  sprang  forward  threateningly; 
the  lama  suddenly  raised  his  head,  bringing  his  huge  tam-o'-shanter 
cap  into  the  full  light  of  Kim's  new-started  fire. 

'What  is  it?'  said  he. 

The  man  halted  as  though  struck  to  stone.  'I  —  I  —  am  saved 
from  a  great  sin,'  he  stammered. 

'The  foreigner  has  found  him  a  priest  at  last,'  whispered  one  of 
the  Ooryas. 

'  Hai !  Why  is  that  beggar  brat  not  well  beaten  ? '  the  old  woman 
cried. 

The  hillman  drew  back  to  the  cart  and  whispered  something  to 
the  curtain.  There  was  dead  silence,  then  a  muttering. 

'This  goes  well,'  thought  Kim,  pretending  neither  to  see  nor  hear. 

'When  —  when  —  he  has  eaten'  —  the  hillman  fawned  on  Kim 


KIM  83 

—  'it —  it  is  requested  that  the  Holy  One  will  do  the  honour  to 
talk  to  one  who  would  speak  to  him.' 

'After  he  has  eaten  he  will  sleep,'  Kim  returned  loftily.  He  could 
not  quite  see  what  new  turn  the  game  had  taken,  but  stood  resolute 
to  profit  by  it.  'Now,  I  will  get  him  his  food.'  The  last  sentence, 
spoken  loudly,  ended  with  a  sigh  as  of  faintness. 

'I  —  I  myself  and  the  others  of  my  people  will  look  to  that  — 
if  it  is  permitted.' 

'It  is  permitted,'  said  Kim,  more  loftily  than  ever.  'Holy  One, 
these  people  will  bring  us  food.' 

'The  land  is  good.  All  the  country  of  the  south  is  good  —  a 
great  and  a  terrible  world,'  mumbled  the  lama  drowsily. 

'Let  him  sleep,'  said  Kim,  'but  look  to  it  that  we  are  well  fed 
when  he  wakes.  He  is  a  very  holy  man.' 

Again  one  of  the  Ooryas  said  something  contemptuously. 

'He  is  not  a  faquir.  He  is  not  a  down-country  beggar,'  Kim 
went  on  severely,  addressing  the  stars.  'He  is  the  most  holy  of 
holy  men.  He  is  above  all  castes.  I  am  his  chela? 

'Come  here!'  said  the  flat  thin  voice  behind  the  curtain;  and 
Kim  came,  conscious  that  eyes  he  could  not  see  were  staring  at 
him.  One  skinny  brown  finger  heavy  with  rings  lay  on  the  edge 
of  the  cart,  and  the  talk  went  this  way: 

'Who  is  that  one?' 

'An  exceeding  holy  one.  He  comes  from  far  off.  He  comes 
from  Tibet.' 

'Where  in  Tibet?' 

'  From  behind  the  snows  —  from  a  very  far  place.  He  knows 
the  stars;  he  makes  horoscopes;  he  reads  nativities.  But  he  does 
not  do  this  for  money.  He  does  it  for  kindness  and  great  charity. 
I  am  his  disciple.  I  am  called  also  the  Friend  of  the  Stars.' 


84  KIM 

'Thou  art  no  hillman.' 

'Ask  him.  He  will  tell  thee  I  was  sent  to  him  from  the  stars 
to  show  him  an  end  to  his  pilgrimage.' 

'Humph!  Consider,  brat,  that  I  am  an  old  woman  and  not 
altogether  a  fool.  Lamas  I  know,  and  to  these  I  give  reverence, 
but  thou  art  no  more  a  lawful  chela  than  this  my  finger  is  the  pole 
of  this  waggon.  Thou  art  a  casteless  Hindi  —  a  bold  and  unblush- 
ing beggar,  attached,  belike,  to  the  Holy  One  for  the  sake  of  gain.' 

'Do  we  not  all  work  for  gain?'  Kim  changed  his  tone  promptly 
to  match  that  altered  voice.  'I  have  heard'  —  this  was  a  bow 
drawn  at  a  venture  —  'I  have  heard ' 

'What  hast  thou  heard?'  she  snapped,  rapping  with  the  finger. 

'Nothing  that  I  well  remember,  but  some  talk  in  the  bazars, 
which  is  doubtless  a  lie,  that  even  Rajahs  —  small  hill  Rajahs ' 

'But  none  the  less  of  good  Rajput  blood.' 

'Assuredly  of  good  blood.  That  these  even  sell  the  more  comely 
of  their  women  folk  for  gain.  Down  south  they  sell  them  —  to 
zemindars  and  such-all  of  Oudh.' 

If  there  is  one  thing  in  the  world  that  the  small  hill  Rajahs  deny 
it  is  just  this  charge;  but  it  happens  to  be  one  thing  that  the  bazars 
believe,  when  they  discuss  the  mysterious  slave-traffics  of  India. 
The  old  lady  explained  to  Kim,  in  a  tense,  indignant  whisper, 
precisely  what  manner  and  fashion  of  malignant  liar  he  was.  Had 
Kim  hinted  this  when  she  was  a  girl,  he  would  have  been  pom- 
melled to  death  that  same  evening  by  an  elephant.  This  was 
perfectly  true. 

'Ahai!  I  am  only  a  beggar's  brat,  as  the  Eye  of  Beauty  has 
said,'  he  wailed  in  extravagant  terror. 

'Eye  of  Beauty,  forsooth!  Who  am  I  that  thou  should  fling 
beggar  endearments  at  me?'  And  yet  she  laughed  at  the  long- 


KIM  85 

forgotten  word.  'Forty  years  ago  that  might  have  been  said,  and 
not  without  truth.  Ay,  thirty  years  ago.  But  it  is  the  fault 
of  this  gadding  up  and  down  Hind  that  a  king's  widow  must 
jostle  with  all  the  scum  of  the  land,  and  be  made  a  mock  by 
beggars.' 

'Great  Queen/  said  Kim  promptly,  for  he  heard  her  shaking 
with  indignation.  'I  am  even  what  the  Great  Queen  says  I  am; 
but  none  the  less  is  my  master  holy.  He  has  not  yet  heard  the 
Great  Queen's  order  that ' 

'Order!  I  order  a  Holy  One  —  a  teacher  of  the  Law  —  to  come 
and  speak  to  a  woman!  Never!' 

'Pity  my  stupidity.     I  thought  it  was  given  as  an  order ' 

'It  was  not.     It  was  a  petition.     Does  this  make  all  clear?' 

A  silver  coin  clinked  on  the  edge  of  the  cart.  Kim  took  it  and 
salaamed  profoundly.  The  old  lady  recognized  that,  as  the  eyes 
and  the  ears  of  the  lama,  he  was  to  be  propitiated. 

'  I  am  but  the  Holy  One's  disciple.  When  he  has  eaten  he  will 
come.' 

'  Oh,  villain  and  shameless  rogue ! '  The  jewelled  forefinger  shook 
itself  at  him  reprovingly;  but  he  could  hear  the  old  lady's  chuckle. 

'Nay,  what  is  it?'  he  said,  dropping  into  his  most  caressing  and 
confidential  tone  —  the  one,  he  knew,  that  few  could  resist.  '  Is 
—  there  any  need  of  a  son  in  thy  family  ?  Speak  freely,  for  we 

priests '  That  last  was  a  direct  plagiarism  from  a  faauir 

by  the  Taksali  Gate. 

'  We  priests !  Thou  art  not  yet  old  enough  to '  She  checked 

the  joke  with  another  laugh.  'Believe  me,  now  and  again,  we 
women,  O  priest,  think  of  other  matters  than  sons.  Moreover,  my 
daughter  has  borne  her  man-child.' 

'Two  arrows  in  the  quiver  are  better  than  one;  and  three  are 


86  KIM 

better  still.'  Kim  quoted  the  proverb  with  a  meditative  drawl, 
looking  discreetly  earthward. 

'True  —  oh,  true.  But  perhaps  that  will  come.  Certainly 
those  down-country  Brahmins  are  utterly  useless.  I  sent  gifts 
and  monies  and  gifts  again  to  them,  and  they  prophesied.' 

'Ah,'  said  Kim,  with  infinite  contempt,  'they  prophesied!'  A 
professional  could  have  done  no  better. 

'And  it  was  not  till  I  remembered  my  own  gods  that  my  prayers 
were  heard.  I  chose  an  auspicious  hour,  and  —  perhaps  thy 
Holy  One  has  heard  of  the  Abbot  of  the  Deng-cho  lamassery.  It 
was  to  him  I  put  the  matter,  and  behold  in  the  due  time  all  came 
about  as  I  desired.  The  Brahmin  in  the  house  of  the  father  of 
my  daughter's  son  has  since  said  that  it  was  through  his  prayers  — 
which  is  a  little  matter  which  I  will  make  plain  to  him  when  we 
reach  our  journey's  end.  And  so  afterwards  I  go  to  Buddh-Gaya, 
to  make  shraddha  for  the  father  of  my  children.' 

'Thither  go  we.' 

'Doubly  auspicious.'  chirruped  the  old  lady.  'A  second  son  at 
least!' 

'O  Friend  of  all  the  World!'  The  lama  had  waked,  and,  simply 
as  a  child  bewildered  in  a  strange  bed,  called  for  Kim. 

'I  come!  I  come,  Holy  One!'  He  dashed  to  the  fire,  where  he 
found  the  lama  already  surrounded  by  dishes  of  food,  the  hillmen 
visibly  adoring  him  and  the  Southerners  looking  sourly. 

'Go  back!  Withdraw!'  Kim  cried.  'Do  we  eat  publicly 
like  dogs?'  They  finished  the  meal  in  silence,  each  a  little 
apart  from  the  other,  and  Kim  topped  it  with  a  native-made 
cigarette. 

'Did  I  not  say  an  hundred  times  that  the  South  is  a  good  land? 
Here  is  a  virtuous  and  high-born  widow  of  a  hill  Rajah  on  pilgrim- 


KIM  87 

age,  she  says,  to  Buddh-Gaya.  She  it  is  sends  us  those  dishes; 
and  when  thou  art  well  rested  she  would  speak  to  thee.' 

'Is  this  also  thy  work?'  The  lama  dipped  deep  into  his  snuff- 
gourd. 

'Who  else  watched  over  thee  since  our  wonderful  journey  be- 
gan?' Kim's  eyes  danced  in  his  head  as  he  blew  the  rank  smoke 
through  his  nostrils  and  stretched  him  on  the  dusty  ground.  'Have 
I  failed  to  oversee  thy  comforts,  Holy  One?' 

'A  blessing  on  thee.'  The  lama  inclined  his  solemn  head.  'I 
have  known  many  men  in  my  so  long  life,  and  disciples  not  a  few. 
But  to  none  among  men,  if  so  be  thou  art  woman-born,  has  my 
heart  gone  out  as  it  has  to  thee  —  thoughtful,  wise,  and  courteous, 
but  something  of  a  small  imp.' 

'And  I  have  never  seen  such  a  Holy  One  as  thou.'  Kim  con- 
sidered the  benevolent  yellow  face  wrinkle  by  wrinkle.  'It  is  less 
than  three  days  since  we  took  road  together,  and  it  is  as  though  it 
were  a  hundred  years.' 

'Perhaps  in  a  former  life  it  was  permitted  that  I  should  have 
rendered  thee  some  service.  May  be'  —  he  smiled  —  'I  freed  thee 
from  a  trap;  or,  having  caught  thee  on  a  hook  in  the  days  when  I 
was  not  enlightened,  cast  thee  back  into  the  river  again.' 

'May  be,'  said  Kim  quietly.  He  had  heard  this  sort  of  specu- 
lation again  and  again,  from  the  mouths  of  many  men  whom  an 
Englishman  would  not  consider  imaginative.  'Now  as  regards  that 
woman  in  the  bullock-cart,  /  think  she  needs  a  second  son  for  her 
daughter.' 

'That  is  no  part  of  the  Way,'  said  the  lama.  'But  at  least  she 
is  from  the  hills.  Ah,  the  hills,  and  the  snow  of  the  hills!' 

He  rose  and  stalked  to  the  cart.  Kim  would  have  given  his 
ears  to  come  too,  but  the  lama  did  not  invite  him;  and  the  few 


88  KIM 

words  Kim  caught  were  in  an  unknown  tongue,  for  they  spoke  some 
common  speech  of  the  mountains.  The  woman  seemed  to  ask 
questions  which  the  lama  turned  over  in  his  mind  before  answer- 
ing. Now  and  again  he  heard  the  drone  and  boom  of  a  Chinese 
quotation.  It  was  a  strange  picture  that  he  watched  between 
drowsy  eyelids.  The  lama,  very  straight  and  erect,  the  deep  folds 
of  his  yellow  clothing  slashed  with  black  in  the  light  of  the  parao 
fires  precisely  as  a  knotted  tree-trunk  is  slashed  with  the  shadow  of 
the  long  sun,  addressed  a  tinsel  and  lacquered  ruth  wThich  burned 
like  a  many-coloured  jewel  in  the  same  uncertain  light.  The  pat- 
terns on  the  gold-worked  curtains  ran  up  and  down,  melting  and 
reforming  as  the  folds  shook  and  quivered  to  the  night  wind;  and 
when  the  talk  grew  more  earnest  the  jewelled  forefinger  snapped 
out  little  sparks  of  light  between  the  embroideries.  Behind  the 
cart  was  a  wall  of  uncertain  darkness  speckled  with  little  fires  and 
alive  with  half-caught  forms  and  faces  and  shadows.  The  voices 
of  early  evening  had  settled  down  to  one  soothing  hum  whose 
deepest  note  was  the  steady  chumping  of  the  bullocks  above  their 
chopped  straw,  and  whose  highest  was  the  tinkle  of  a  Bengali 
dancing  girl's  sitar.  Most  men  had  eaten  and  were  deep  in  their 
gurgling,  grunting  hookahs,  which  in  full  blast  sound  like  bull- 
frogs. 

At  last  the  lama  returned.  A  hillman  walked  behind  him  with  a 
wadded  cotton-quilt  and  spread  it  carefully  by  the  fire. 

'She  deserves  ten  thousand  grandchildren,'  though  Kim.  'None 
the  less,  but  for  me,  these  gifts  would  not  have  come.' 

'A  virtuous  woman  —  and  a  wise  one.'  The  lama  slackened 
off,  joint  by  joint,  like  a  slow  camel.  'The  world  is  full  of  chanty 
to  those  who  follow  the  Way.'  He  flung  a  fair  half  of  the  quilt 
over  Kim. 


KIM  89 

'And  what  said  she?'     Kim  rolled  up  in  his  share  of  it. 

'She  asked  me  many  questions  and  propounded  many  problems 
—  the  most  of  which  were  idle  tales  which  she  had  heard  from 
devil-serving  priests  who  pretend  to  follow  the  Way.  Some  I 
answered,  and  some  I  said  were  foolish.  Many  wear  the  robe,  but 
few  keep  the  Way.' 

'True.  That  is  true.'  Kim  used  the  thoughtful,  conciliatory 
tone  of  those  who  wish  to  draw  confidences. 

'But  by  her  lights  she  is  most  right-minded.  She  desires  greatly 
that  we  should  go  with  her  to  Buddh-Gaya;  her  road  being  ours, 
as  I  understand,  for  many  days'  journey  to  the  southward.' 

'And  ? ' 

'Patience  a  little.  To  this  I  said  that  my  search  came  before 
all  things.  She  had  heard  many  foolish  legends,  but  this  great 
truth  of  my  river  she  had  never  heard.  Such  are  the  priests  of 
the  lower  hills !  She  did  not  know  of  my  river  —  not  even  the 
tale  of  the  Shooting  of  the  Arrow.' 

'And?' 

'  I  spoke  therefore  of  the  Search,  and  of  the  Way,  and  of  matters 
that  were  profitable,  she  desiring  only  that  I  should  accompany 
her  and  make  prayer  for  a  second  son.' 

'Aha!  "We  women"  do  not  think  of  anything  save  children,' 
said  Kim  sleepily. 

'Now,  seeing  that  our  roads  run  together  for  a  while,  I  do  not 
see  that  we  in  any  way  depart  from  our  search  if  so  be  we 
go  with  her  —  at  least  as  far  as  —  I  have  forgotten  the  name 
of  the  city.' 

'Ohe!'  said  Kim,  turning  and  speaking  in  a  sharp  whisper  to 
one  of  the  Ooryas  a  few  yards  away.  'Where  is  your  master's 
house?' 


90  KIM 

'A  little  behind  Saharunpore,  among  the  fruit  gardens.'  He 
named  the  village. 

( That  was  the  place,'  said  the  lama.  'So  far,  at  least,  we  can 
go  with  her.' 

'Flies  go  to  carrion,'  said  the  Oorya,  in  an  abstracted  voice. 

'For  the  sick  cow  a  crow;  for  the  sick  man  a  Brahmin.'  Kim 
quoted  the  proverb  impersonally  to  the  shadow-tops  of  the  trees 
overhead. 

The  Oorya  grunted  and  held  his  peace. 

'  So  then  we  go  with  her,  Holy  One  ? ' 

'Is  there  any  reason  against?  I  can  still  step  aside  and  try  all 
the  rivers  that  the  road  overpasses.  She  desires  that  I  should 
come.  She  very  greatly  desires  it.' 

Kim  stifled  a  laugh  in  the  quilt.  When  once  that  imperious  old 
lady  had  recovered  from  her  natural  awe  of  a  lama  he  thought  it 
probable  that  she  would  be  worth  listening  to. 

He  was  nearly  asleep  when  the  lama  suddenly  quoted  a  proverb: 
'The  husbands  of  the  talkative  have  a  great  reward  hereafter.' 
Then  Kim  heard  him  snuff  thrice,  and  dozed  off,  still  laughing. 

The  diamond-bright  dawn  woke  men  and  cows  and  bullocks  to- 
gether. Kim  sat  up  and  yawned,  shook  himself,  and  thrilled  with 
delight.  This  was  seeing  the  world  in  real  truth;  this  was  life  as 
he  would  have  it  —  bustling  and  shouting,  the  buckling  of  belts, 
and  beating  of  bullocks  and  creaking  of  wheels,  lighting  of  fires 
and  cooking  of  food,  and  new  sights  at  every  turn  of  the  approv- 
ing eye.  The  morning  mist  swept  off  in  a  whirl  of  silver;  the  par- 
rots shot  away  to  some  distant  river  in  shrieking  green  hosts:  all 
the  well-wheels  within  earshot  were  at  work.  India  was  awake, 
and  Kim  was  in  the  middle  of  it,  more  awake  and  more  excited  than 
any  one,  chewing  on  a  twig  that  he  would  presently  use  as  a  tooth- 


KIM  91 

brush;  for  he  borrowed  right-  and  left-handedly  from  all  the 
customs  of  the  country  he  knew  and  loved.  There  was  no  need  to 
worry  about  food  —  no  need  to  spend  a  cowrie  at  the  crowded 
stalls.  He  was  the  disciple  of  a  holy  man  annexed  by  a  strong- 
willed  old  lady.  All  things  would  be  prepared  for  them,  and 
when  they  were  respectfully  invited  so  to  do  they  would  sit  and  eat. 
For  the  rest,  —  Kim  giggled  here  as  he  cleaned  his  teeth,  —  the 
old  lady  would  be  no  bar  to  the  enjoyment  of  the  road.  He 
inspected  her  bullocks  critically,  as  they  came  up  grunting  and 
blowing  under  the  yokes.  If  they  went  too  swiftly  —  it  was  not 
likely  —  there  would  be  a  pleasant  seat  for  himself  along  the  pole; 
the  lama  would  sit  beside  the  driver.  The  escort,  of  course,  would 
walk.  The  old  lady,  equally  of  course,  would  talk  a  great  deal, 
and  by  what  he  had  heard  that  conversation  would  not  lack  salt. 
She  was  already  ordering,  haranguing,  rebuking,  and,  it  must  be 
said,  cursing  her  servants  for  delays. 

'Get  her  her  pipe.  In  the  name  of  the  gods,  get  her  her  pipe 
and  stop  her  ill-omened  mouth,'  cried  an  Oorya,  tying  up  his  shape- 
less bundles  of  bedding.  'She  and  the  parrots  are  alike.  They 
screech  in  the  dawn.' 

'The  lead-bullocks!  Hai!  Look  to  the  lead-bullocks!'  They 
were  backing  and  wheeling  as  a  cotton-cart's  axle  caught  them  by 
the  horns.  'Son  of  an  owl,  where  dost  thou  go?'  This  to  the 
grinning  carter. 

'Ai!  Yai!  Yai!  That  within  there  is  the  Queen  of  Delhi  going 
to  pray  for  a  son.'  The  man  called  back  over  his  high  load:  'Room 
for  the  Queen  of  Delhi  and  her  prime  minister  the  gray  monkey 
climbing  up  his  own  sword!'  Another  cart  loaded  with  bark  for  a 
down-country  tannery  followed  close  behind,  and  its  driver  added 
a  few  compliments  as  the  ruth-bullocks  backed  and  backed  again. 


92  KIM 

From  behind  the  shaking  curtains  came  one  volley  of  invective. 
It  did  not  last  long,  but  in  kind  and  quality,  in  blistering,  biting 
appropriateness,  it  was  beyond  anything  that  even  Kim  had  heard. 
He  could  see  the  carter's  bare  chest  collapse  with  amazement,  as 
the  man  salaamed  reverently  to  the  voice,  leaped  from  the  pole, 
and  helped  the  escort  to  haul  their  volcano  on  to  the  main  road. 
Then  the  voice  told  him  truthfully,  what  sort  of  wife  he  had  wedded, 
and  what  she  was  doing  in  his  absence. 

'Oh,  shabash!'  murmured  Kim,  unable  to  contain  himself,  as 
the  man  slunk  away. 

'Well  done,  indeed?  It  is  a  shame  and  a  scandal  that  a  poor 
woman  may  not  go  to  make  prayer  to  her  gods  except  she  be 
jostled  and  insulted  by  all  the  refuse  of  Hindustan  —  that  she  must 
eat  gali  (abuse)  as  men  eat  ghi.  But  I  have  yet  a  wag  left  to  my 
tongue,  a  word  or  two  well  spoken  that  serves  the  occasion.  And 
still  am  I  without  my  tobacco!  Who  is  the  one-eyed  and  luckless 
son  of  shame  that  has  not  yet  prepared  my  pipe?' 

It  was  hastily  thrust  in  by  a  hillman,  and  a  trickle  of  thick  smoke 
from  each  corner  of  the  curtains  showed  that  peace  was  restored. 

If  Kim  had  walked  proudly  the  day  before,  disciple  of  a  holy 
man,  to-day  he  paced  with  tenfold  pride  in  the  train  of  a  semi- 
royal  procession,  with  a  recognized  place  under  the  patronage  of  an 
old  lady  of  charming  manners  and  infinite  resource.  The  escort, 
their  heads  tied  up  native  fashion,  fell  in  on  either  side  the  cart, 
shuffling  enormous  clouds  of  dust. 

The  lama  and  Kim  walked  a  little  to  one  side;  Kim  chewing  his 
stick  of  sugar-cane,  and  making  way  for  no  one  under  the  status 
of  a  priest.  They  could  hear  the  old  lady's  tongue  clacking  as 
steadily  as  a  rice-husker.  She  bade  the  escort  tell  her  what  was 
going  on  on  the  road;  and  as  soon  as  they  were  clear  of  the  parao 


THE  LAMA  AND    KIM  WALKED  A  LITTLE  TO  ONE  SIDE;  KIM  CHEWING  HIS  STICK  OF  SUGAR-CANE,  AND 
MAKING  WAY  FOR  NO  ONE  UNDER  THE  STATUS  OF  A  PRIEST 


KIM  93 

she  flung  back  the  curtains  and  peered  out,  her  veil  a  third  across 
her  face.  Her  men  did  not  eye  her  directly  when  she  addressed 
them,  and  thus  the  proprieties  were  more  or  less  observed. 

A  dark,  sallowish  district  superintendent  of  police,  faultlessly 
uniformed,  an  Englishman,  trotted  by  on  a  tired  horse,  and,  seeing 
by  her  retinue  what  manner  of  person  she  was,  chaffed  her. 

'O  mother,'  he  cried,  'do  they  do  this  in  the  zenanas?  Suppose 
an  Englishman  came  by  and  saw  that  thou  hadst  no  nose?' 

'What?'  she  shrilled  back.  'Thy  own  mother  has  no  nose? 
Why  say  so,  then,  on  the  open  road?' 

It  was  a  fair  counter.  The  Englishman  threw  up  his  hand  with 
a  gesture  of  a  man  hit  at  sword-play.  She  laughed  and  nodded. 

'Is  this  a  face  to  tempt  virtue  aside?'  She  withdrew  all  her 
veil  and  stared  at  him. 

It  was  by  no  means  lovely,  but  as  the  man  gathered  up  his  reins 
he  called  it  a  Moon  of  Paradise,  a  Disturber  of  Integrity,  and  a  few 
other  fantastic  epithets  which  doubled  her  up  with  mirth. 

'That  is  a  nut-cut  (rogue),'  she  said.  'All  police-constables  are 
nut-cuts;  but  the  police-wallahs  are  the  worst.  Hai,  my  son,  thou 
hast  never  learned  all  that  since  thou  earnest  from  Belait  (Europe). 
Who  suckled  thee?' 

'A  pahareen  —  a  hillwoman  of  Dalhousie,  my  mother.  Keep 
thy  beauty  under  a  shade  —  O  Dispenser  of  Delights,'  and  he  was 
gone. 

'These  be  the  sort,'  —  she  took  a  fine  judicial  tone,  and  stuffed 
her  mouth  with  pan.  'These  be  the  sort  to  dispense  justice.  They 
know  the  land  and  the  customs  of  the  land.  The  others,  all  new 
from  Europe,  suckled  by  white  women  and  learning  our  tongues 
from  books,  are  worse  than  the  pestilence.  They  do  harm  to 
kings.'  Then  she  told  a  long,  long  tale  to  the  world  at  large,  of 


94  KIM 

an  ignorant  young  policeman  who  had  disturbed  some  small  hill 
Rajah,  a  ninth  cousin  of  her  own,  in  the  matter  of  a  trivial  land 
case,  winding  up  with  a  quotation  from  a  work  by  no  means 
devotional. 

Then  her  mood  changed,  and  she  bade  one  of  the  escort  ask 
whether  the  lama  would  walk  alongside  and  discuss  matters  of 
religion.  So  Kim  dropped  back  into  the  dust  and  returned  to  his 
sugar-cane.  For  an  hour  or  more  the  lama's  tam-o'-shanter  showed 
like  a  moon  through  the  haze;  and,  from  all  he  heard,  Kim  gathered 
that  the  old  woman  wept.  One  of  the  Ooryas  half  apologized  for 
his  rudeness  overnight,  saying  that  he  had  never  known  the  old 
lady  in  so  good  a  temper,  and  he  ascribed  it  to  the  presence  of  the 
strange  priest.  Personally,  he  believed  in  Brahmins,  though,  like 
all  natives,  he  was  acutely  aware  of  their  cunning  and  their  greed. 
Still,  when  Brahmins  only  irritated  a  cantankerous  dowager  like 
the  mother  of  his  master's  wife,  and  when  she  sent  them  away  so 
angry  that  they  cursed  the  whole  retinue  (which  was  the  real 
reason  of  the  second  off-side  bullock  going  lame,  and  of  the  pole 
breaking  the  night  before),  he  was  prepared  to  accept  any  priest 
of  any  other  denomination  in  or  out  of  India.  To  this  Kim  as- 
sented with  wise  nods,  and  bade  the  Oorya  observe  that  the  lama 
took  no  money,  and  that  the  cost  of  his  and  Kim's  food  would  be 
repaid  a  hundred  times  in  the  good  luck  that  would  attend  the 
caravan  henceforward.  He  also  told  stories  of  Lahore  city,  and 
sang  a  song  or  two  which  made  the  escort  laugh.  As  a  town- 
mouse  well  acquainted  with  the  latest  songs  by  the  most  fashion- 
able composers,  —  they  are  women  for  the  most  part,  —  Kim  had 
a  distinct  advantage  over  men  from  a  drowsy  little  village  behind 
Saharunpore,  but  he  let  that  advantage  be  inferred. 

At  noon  they  turned  aside  to  eat,  and  the  meal  was  good,  plen- 


KIM  95 

tiful,  and  well-served  on  plates  of  clean  leaves,  in  decency,  out  of 
drift  of  the  dust.  They  gave  the  slops  to  certain  beggars,  that  all 
requirements  might  be  fulfilled,  and  sat  down  to  a  long,  luxurious 
smoke.  The  old  lady  had  retreated  behind  her  curtains,  but  mixed 
most  freely  in  the  talk,  her  servants  arguing  with  and  contradict- 
.  ing  her  as  servants  do  throughout  the  East.  She  compared  the 
cool  and  the  pines  of  the  Kangra  and  Kulu  hills  with  the  dust  and 
the  mangoes  of  the  South;  she  told  a  tale  of  some  old  local  gods  at 
the  edge  of  her  husband's  territory;  she  roundly  abused  the  tobacco 
which  she  was  then  smoking,  reviled  all  Brahmins,  and  speculated 
without  reserve  as  to  when  a  second  grandson  might  be  expected. 


CHAPTER  V 

Here  come  I  to  my  own  again  — 
Fed,  forgiven,  and  known  again  — 
Claimed  by  bone  of  my  bone  again, 

And  sib  to  flesh  of  my  flesh! 
The  fatted  calf  is  dressed  for  me, 
But  the  husks  have  greater  zest  for  me.     .    . 
I  think  my  pigs  will  be  best  for  me, 

So  I'm  off  to  the  styes  afresh. 

The  Prodigal  Son. 

ONCE  more  the  lazy,  string-tied,  shuffling  procession  got  under 
way,  and  she  slept  till  they  reached  the  next  halting-stage.  It  was 
a  very  short  march,  and  lacked  an  hour  to  sundown,  so  Kim  cast 
about  for  means  of  amusement. 

'But  why  not  sit  and  rest?'  said  one  of  the  escort.  'Only  the 
devils  and  the  English  walk  to  and  fro  without  reason.' 

'Never  make  friends  with  the  Devil,  a  monkey,  or  a  boy.  No 
man  knows  what  they  will  do  next,'  said  his  fellow. 

Kim  turned  a  scornful  back  —  he  did  not  want  to  hear  the  old 
story  how  the  Devil  played  with  the  boys  and  repented  of  it  — 

and  walked  idly  across  country. 

The  lama  strode  after  him.  All  that  day,  whenever  they  passed 
a  stream,  he  had  turned  aside  to  look  at  it,  but  in  no  case  had  he 
received  any  warning  that  he  had  found  his  river.  Insensibly  too 
the  comfort  of  speaking  to  some  one  in  a  reasonable  tongue,  and 
of  being  properly  considered  and  respected  as  her  spiritual  adviser 
by  a  well-born  woman,  had  weaned  his  thoughts  a  little  from  the 

96 


KIM  97 

search.  And  further,  he  was  prepared  to  spend  serene  years  in  his 
quest;  having  nothing  of  the  white  man's  impatience,  but  a  great 
faith. 

' Where  goest  thou?'  he  called  after  Kim. 

'No  whither  —  it  was  a  small  march,  and  all  this'  —  Kim  waved 
his  hands  abroad  —  'is  new  to  me.' 

4  She  is  beyond  question  a  wise  and  a  discerning  woman.  But  it 
is  hard  to  meditate  when ' 

'All  women  are  thus.'     Kim  spoke  as  might  have  Solomon. 

'Before  the  lamassery  was  a  broad  platform,'  the  lama  muttered, 

looping  up  the  well-worn  rosary,  'of  stone On  that  I  have 

left  the  marks  of  my  feet  —  pacing  to  and  fro  —  with  these.' 

He  clicked  the  beads,  and  began  the  (0m  mane  pudme  hum '  of  his 
devotion ;  grateful  for  the  cool,  the  quiet,  and  the  absence  of  dust. 

One  thing  after  another  drew  Kim's  idle  eye  across  the  plain. 
There  was  no  purpose  in  his  wanderings,  except  that  the  build  of 
the  huts  near  by  was  new,  and  he  wished  to  investigate. 

They  came  out  on  a  broad  tract  of  grazing-ground,  brown  and 
purple  in  the  afternoon  light,  with  a  heavy  clump  of  mangoes  in 
the  centre.  It  struck  Kim  as  curious  that  no  shrine  stood  in  so 
eligible  a  spot:  the  boy  had  as  keen  an  eye  as  any  priest  for  these 
things.  Far  across  the  plain  walked  side  by  side  four  men,  made 
small  by  the  distance.  He  looked  intently  under  his  curved  palms 
and  caught  the  sheen  of  brass. 

'Soldiers.     White  soldiers!'  said  he.     'Let  us  see.' 

'It  is  always  soldiers  when  thou  and  I  go  out  alone  together. 
But  I  have  never  seen  the  white  soldiers.' 

'They  do  no  harm  except  when  they  are  drunk.  Keep  behind 
this  tree.' 

They  stepped  behind  the  thick  trunks  in  the  cool  dark  of  the 


98  KIM 

mango-tope.  Two  little  figures  halted;  the  other  two  came  for- 
ward uncertainly.  They  were  the  advanced  party  of  a  regiment 
on  the  march,  sent  out,  as  usual,  to  mark  the  camp.  They  bore 
five-foot  sticks  with  fluttering  flags,  and  called  to  each  other  as  they 
spread  over  the  dusty  levels. 

At  last  they  entered  the  mango-grove,  walking  heavily. 

'It's  here  or  hereabouts  —  officers'  tents  under  the  trees,  I  take 
it,  an'  the  rest  of  us  can  stay  outside.  Have  they  marked  out  for 
the  baggage-wagons  behind?' 

They  cried  again  to  their  comrades  in  the  distance,  and  the 
rough  answer  came  back  faint  and  mellowed. 

'Shove  the  flag  in  here,  then,'  said  one. 

'What  do  they  prepare?'  said  the  lama,  wonderstruck.  'This 
is  a  great  and  terrible  world.  What  is  the  device  on  the  flag?' 

A  soldier  thrust  a  stave  within  a  few  feet  of  them,  grunted  dis- 
contentedly, pulled  it  up  again,  conferred  with  his  companion,  who 
looked  up  and  down  the  shaded,  green-roofed  dome,  and  returned  it. 

Kim  stared  with  all  his  eyes,  his  breath  coming  short  and  sharp 
between  his  teeth.  The  soldiers  went  away  into  the  sunshine. 

'O  Holy  One,'  he  gasped,  'my  horoscope!  The  drawing  in  the 
dust  by  the  priest  at  Umballa!  Remember  what  he  said.  First 
come  two  — j "crashes  —  to  make  all  things  ready  —  in  a  dark 
place,  as  it  is  always  at  the  beginning  of  a  vision.' 

'But  this  is  no  vision,'  said  the  lama.  'It  is  the  world's  Illusion, 
and  no  more.' 

'And  after  them  comes  the  Bull  —  the  Red  Bull  on  the  green 
field.  Look!  It  is  he!' 

He  pointed  to  the  flag  that  was  snap-snapping  in  the  evening 
breeze  not  ten  feet  away.  It  was  no  more  than  an  ordinary  mark- 
ing flag;  but  the  regiment,  always  punctilious  in  matters  of  mil- 


KIM  99 

linery,  had  charged  it  with  the  regimental  device,  the  Red  Bull, 
which  is  the  crest  of  the  Mavericks  —  the  great  Red  Bull  on  a 
background  of  Irish  green. 

'I  see,  and  now  I  remember,'  said  the  lama.  '  Certainly  it  is  the 
Bull.  Certainly,  also,  the  two  men  came  to  make  all  ready.' 

'They  are  soldiers  —  white  soldiers.  What  said  the  priest  ?  The 
sign  over  against  the  Bull  is  the  sign  of  war  and  armed  men.  Holy 
One,  this  thing,  in  some  way  which  I  do  not  see,  touches  my  search.' 

'True.  It  is  true.'  The  lama  stared  fixedly  at  the  device  that 
flamed  like  a  ruby  in  the  dusk.  'The  priest  at  Umballa  said  that 
there  was  the  sign  of  war.' 

'What  is  to  do  now?' 

'Wait.     Let  us  wait,'  said  the  lama. 

'Even  now  the  darkness  clears,'  said  Kim.  It  was  only  natural 
that  the  descending  sun  should  at  last  strike  through  the  tree- 
trunks,  across  the  tope,  filling  it  with  mealy  gold  light  for  a  few 
minutes;  but  to  Kim  it  was  part  of  the  Umballa  Brahmin's 
prophecy. 

'Hark!'  said  the  lama.     'One  beats  a  drum  —  far  off!' 

At  first  the  sound,  carrying  far  through  the  still  air,  resembled 
the  beating  of  an  artery  in  the  head.  Then  a  sharp  noise  was 
added  to  it. 

'Ah!  The  music,'  Kim  explained.  He  knew  the  sound  of  a 
regimental  band,  but  it  amazed  the  lama. 

At  the  far  end  of  the  plain  a  heavy,  dusty  column  crawled  in 
sight.  Then  the  wind  brought  the  tune: 

We  crave  your  condescension 
To  tell  you  what  we  know 
Of  marching  in  the  Mulligan  Guards 
To  Sligo  Port  below. 


ioo  KIM 

Here  broke  in  the  shrill-tongued  fifes : — 

We  shouldered  arms, 
We  marched  —  we  marched  away 
From  Phcenix  Park 
We  marched  to  Dublin  Bay. 
The  drums  and  the  fifes, 
Oh,  sweetly  they  did  play, 
As  we  marched  —  marched  —  marched  —  with  the  Mulligan  Guards. 

It  was  the  band  of  the  Mavericks  playing  the  regiment  into  its 
camp;  for  the  men  were  route-marching  with  their  baggage.  The 
rippling  column  swung  into  the  plain  —  carts  behind  it  —  broke 
into  pieces,  was  divided  left  and  right,  ran  about  like  an  ant-hill, 
and 

4 But  this  is  sorcery!'  said  the  lama. 

The  plain  dotted  itself  with  tents  that  seemed  to  rise,  all  spread, 
from  the  carts.  Another  rush  of  men  invaded  the  grove,  pitched 
a  huge  tent  in  silence,  ran  up  yet  eight  or  nine  more  by  the  side  of 
it,  unearthed  cooking-pots,  pans,  and  bundles,  which  were  taken 
possession  of  by  a  crowd  of  native  servants;  and  behold  the  mango- 
tope  turned  into  an  orderly  town  as  they  watched ! 

'Let  us  go,'  said  the  lama,  sinking  back  afraid,  as  the  fires  twin- 
kled and  white  officers  with  jingling  swords  stalked  into  the 
mess-tent. 

'Stand  back  in  the  shadow.  No  one  can  see  beyond  the  light  of 
a  fire,'  said  Kim,  his  eyes  still  on  the  flag.  He  had  never  before 
watched  the  routine  of  a  seasoned  regiment  pitching  camp  in 
thirty  minutes. 

'Look! look!  look!'  clucked  the  lama.     'Yonder comes  a  priest.' 

It  was  Bennett,  the  Church  of  England  chaplain  of  the  regiment, 
limping  in  dusty  black.  One  of  his  flock  had  made  some  rude  re- 


KIM  101 

« 

marks  about  the  chaplain's  mettle;  and  to  abash  him  Bennett  had 
marched  step  by  step  with  the  men  that  day.  The  black  dress, 
gold  cross  on  the  watch-chain,  the  hairless  face,  and  the  soft, 
black  wide-awake  hat  would  have  marked  him  as  a  holy  man  any- 
where in  all  India.  He  dropped  into  a  camp-chair  by  the  door  of 
the  mess-tent  and  slid  off  his  boots.  Three  or  four  officers  gathered 
round  him,  laughing  and  joking  over  his  exploit. 

'The  talk  of  white  men  is  wholly  lacking  in  dignity,'  said  the 
lama,  who  judged  only  by  tones.  'But  I  have  considered  the 
countenance  of  that  priest,  and  I  think  he  is  courteous.  Is  it 
likely  that  he  will  understand  our  talk?  I  would  talk  to  him  of 
my  search.' 

'Never  speak  to  a  white  man  till  he  is  fed,'  said  Kim  quoting  a 
well-known  proverb.  'They  will  eat  now,  and  —  and  I  do  not 
think  they  are  good  to  beg  from.  Let  us  go  back  to  the  resting- 
place.  After  we  have  eaten  we  will  come  again.  It  certainly  was 
a  Red  Bull  —  my  Red  Bull.' 

They  were  both  noticeably  absent-minded  when  the  old  lady's 
retinue  set  their  meal  before  them;  so  none  broke  their  reserve,  for 
it  is  not  lucky  to  annoy  guests. 

'Now,'  said  Kim,  picking  his  teeth,  'we  will  return  to  that  'place; 
but  thou,  O  Holy  One,  must  wait  a  little  way  off,  because  thy  feet 
are  heavier  than  mine  and  I  am  anxious  to  see  more  of  that  Red 
Bull.' 

'But  how  canst  thou  understand  the  talk?  Walk  slowly.  The 
road  is  very  dark,'  the  lama  replied  uneasily. 

Kim  put  the  question  aside.  'I  marked  a  place  near  to  the 
trees,'  said  he,  'where  thou  canst  sit  till  I  call.  Nay,'  as  the  lama 
made  some  sort  of  protest,  'remember  this  is  my  search  —  the 
search  for  my  Red  Bull.  The  sign  in  the  stars  was  not  for  thee.  I 


102  KIM 

know  a  little  of  the  customs  of  white  soldiers,  though  I  have  never 
seen  them  make  a  city  in  the  flash  of  an  eye.' 

' What  dostthou  not  know  of  this  world?'  The  lama  squatted 
obediently  in  a  little  hollow  of  the  ground  not  a  hundred  yards 
from  the  hump  of  the  mango  trees  dark  against  the  star-powdered 
sky. 

'Stay  till  I  call.'  Kim  flitted  into  the  dusk.  He  knew  that  in 
all  probability  there  would  be  sentries  round  the  camp,  and  smiled 
to  himself  as  he  heard  the  thick  boots  of  one.  A  boy  who  can  dodge 
across  the  roofs  of  Lahore  city  on  a  moonlight  night,  using  every 
little  patch  and  corner  of  darkness  to  discomfit  his  pursuer,  is  not 
likely  to  be  checked  by  a  line  of  unsuspecting  soldiers.  He  did 
them  the  compliment  of  crawling  between  a  couple,  and,  running 
and  halting,  crouching  and  dropping  flat,  worked  his  way  toward 
the  lighted  mess-tent  where,  close  pressed  behind  the  mango  tree, 
he  waited  till  some  chance  word  should  give  him  a  returnable  lead. 

The  one  thing  now  in  his  mind  was  further  information  as  to  the 
Red  Bull.  For  aught  he  knew,  and  Kim's  limitations  were  as 
curious  and  sudden  as  his  knowledges,  the  men,  the  nine  hundred 
pukka  shaitans  of  his  father's  prophecy,  might  pray  to  the  beast 
after  dark,  as  Hindus  pray  to  the  image  of  the  Holy  Cow.  That, 
at  least  would  be  entirely  right  and  logical,  and  the  padre  with  the 
gold  cross  would  be  therefore  the  man  to  consult  in  the  matter.  On 
the  other  hand,  remembering  equally  sober-faced  padres  whom  he 
had  avoided  in  Lahore  city,  the  priest  might  be  an  inquisitive  nui- 
sance who  would  bid  him  work.  But  again,  had  it  not  been  writ- 
ten in  the  dust  at  Umballa  that  his  sign  in  the  high  heavens  por- 
tended war  and  armed  men?  Was  he  not,  too,  the  Friend  of  the 
Stars  as  well  as  of  all  the  world,  crammed  to  the  teeth  with  dread- 
ful secrets?  Lastly,  —  and  firstly  as  the  undercurrent  of  all  his 


KIM  103 

quick  little  thoughts,  —  this  adventure,  though  he  did  not  know 
the  English  word,  was  a  stupendous  lark  —  a  delightful  continua- 
tion of  his  old  flights  across  the  housetops,  as  well  as  the  fulfilment 
of  sublime  prophecy.  He  lay  belly-flat  and  wriggled  towards  the 
mess-tent  door. 

It  was  as  he  suspected.  The  Sahibs  prayed  to  their  god;  for  in 
the  centre  of  the  mess-table  —  its  sole  ornament  when  they  were  on 
the  line  of  march  —  stood  a  golden  bull  fashioned  from  old-time 
loot  of  the  Summer  Palace  at  Pekin  —  a  red-gold  bull  with  lowered 
head,  stamping  upon  a  field  of  Irish  green.  To  this  god  the  Sa- 
hibs held  out  their  glasses  and  cried  aloud  confusedly. 

Now  the  Reverend  Arthur  Bennett  always  left  mess  after  that 
toast,  and  being  rather  tired  by  his  march  his  movements  were 
more  abrupt  than  usual.  Kim,  with  slightly  raised  head,  was  still 
staring  at  his  totem  on  the  table,  when  the  chaplain  stepped  on  his 
right  shoulder-blade.  Kim  flinched  under  the  leather,  and  rolling 
sideways,  brought  down  the  chaplain,  who,  ever  a  man  of  action, 
caught  him  by  the  throat  and  nearly  choked  the  life  out  of  him. 
Kim  then  kicked  him  desperately  in  the  stomach.  Mr.  Bennett 
gasped  and  doubled  up  but  without  relaxing  his  grasp,  rolled  over 
again,  and  silently  hauled  Kim  to  his  own  tent.  The  Mavericks 
were  incurable  practical  jokers;  and  it  occurred  to  the  chaplain  that 
silence  was  best  till  he  had  made  complete  inquiry. 

'Why,  it's  a  boy!'  he  said,  as  he  drew  his  prize  under  the  light  of 
the  tent-pole  lantern,  then  shaking  him  severely,  cried :  '  What 
were  you  doing?  You're  a  thief.  Choor?  Mallum?'  His  Hin- 
dustanee  was  very  limited,  and  the  ruffled  and  disgusted  Kim  in- 
tended to  keep  to  the  character  laid  down  for  him.  As  he  re- 
covered his  breath  he  was  inventing  a  most  beautifully  plausible 
tale  of  his  relations  to  some  mess-scullion,  and  at  the  same  time 


104  KIM 

keeping  a  keen  eye  on  and  a  little  under  the  chaplain's  left  arm- 
pit. The  chance  came;  he  ducked  for  the  doorway;  a  long  arm  shot 
out  and  clutched  at  his  neck,  snapping  the  amulet  string  and  clos- 
ing on  the  amulet. 

'Give  it  me.     O  give  it  me.     Is  it  lost?     Give  me  the  papers.' 

The  words  were  in  English  —  the  clipped,  sing-song  English  of 
the  native-bred.  The  chaplain  jumped. 

'A  scapular,'  said  he,  opening  his  hand.  'No,  some  sort  of 
heathen  charm.  Why  —  why,  do  you  speak  English?  Little 
boys  who  steal  are  beaten.  You  know  that.' 

'I  do  not  —  I  did  not  steal.'  Kim  danced  in  agony  like  a  ter- 
rier at  a  lifted  stick.  'O  give  it  me.  It  is  my  charm.  Do  not 
thieve  it  from  me.' 

The  chaplain  took  no  heed,  but,  going  to  the  tent  door,  called 
aloud.  A  fattish,  clean-shaven  man  appeared. 

*I  want  your  advice,  Father  Victor,'  said  Bennett.  'I  found  this 
boy  in  the  dark  outside  the  mess-tent.  Ordinarily,  I  should  have 
chastised  him  and  let  him  go,  because  I  believe  him  to  be  a  thief. 
But  it  seems  he  talks  English,  and  he  attaches  some  sort  of  value 
to  a  charm  round  his  neck.  I  thought  perhaps  you  might  help 
me.' 

Between  himself  and  the  Roman  Catholic  chaplain  of  the  Irish 
contingent  lay,  as  Bennett  believed,  an  unbridgeable  gulf;  but  it 
was  noticeable  that  whenever  the  Church  of  England  dealt  with  a 
human  problem  she  was  very  likely  to  call  in  the  Church  of  Rome. 
Bennett's  official  abhorrence  of  the  Scarlet  Woman  and  all  her 
ways  was  only  equalled  by  his  private  respect  for  Father  Victor. 

'A  thief  talking  English,  is  it?  Let's  look  at  his  charm.  No,  it 
is  not  a  scapular,  Bennett.'  He  held  out  his  hand. 

'But  have  we  any  right  to  open  it?     A  sound  whipping ' 


KIM  105 

'I  did  not  thieve,'  protested  Kim.  'You  have  hit  me  kicks  all 
over  my  body.  Now  give  me  my  charm  and  I  will  go  away.' 

'Not  quite  so  fast;  we'll  look  first,'  said  Father  Victor,  leisurely 
rolling  out  poor  Kimball  O'Hara's  lne  varietur'  parchment,  his 
clearance  certificate,  and  Kim's  baptismal  certificate.  On  this 
last  O'Hara  —  with  some  confused  idea  that  he  was  doing  wonders 
for  his  son  —  had  scrawled  scores  of  times:  'Look  after  the  boy. 
Please  look  after  the  boy,'  —  signing  his  name  and  regimental  num- 
ber in  full. 

'Powers  of  Darkness  below!'  said  Father  Victor,  passing  all  over 
to  Mr.  Bennett.  'Do  you  know  what  these  things  are?' 

'No,'  said  Kim.     'But  they  are  mine,  and  I  want  to  go  away.' 

'I  do  not  quite  understand,'  said  Mr.  Bennett.  'He  probably 
brought  them  on  purpose.  It  may  be  a  begging  trick  of  some 
kind.' 

'I  never  saw  a  beggar  less  anxious  to  stay  with  his  company, 
then.  There's  the  makings  of  a  gay  mystery  here.  Ye  believe  in 
Providence,  Bennett?' 

'I  hope  so.' 

'Well,  I  believe  in  miracles,  so  it  comes  to  the  same  thing. 
Powers  of  Darkness!  Kimball  O'Hara!  And  his  son!  But  the 
he's  a  native,  and  I  saw  Kimball  married  myself  to  Annie  Shott. 
How  long  have  you  had  these  things,  boy  ? ' 

'Ever  since  I  was  a  little  baby.'  Father  Victor  stepped  for- 
ward quickly  and  opened  the  front  of  Kim's  upper  garment. 
'You  see,  Bennett,  he's  white.  White  as  you  or  me.  What's 
your  name?' 

'Kim.' 

'Or  Kimball?' 

'I  say  Kim.     Will  you  let  me  go  away?' 


io6  KIM 

1  What  else?' 

'They  call  me  Kim  Rishti  Ke.     That  is  Kim  of  the  Rishti.' 

'What  is  that  —  "Rishti"?' 

'Eye-rishti —  that  was  the  pulton  —  regiment  —  my  father's.' 

'Irish,  oh,  I  see.' 

1  Yes.   That  was  how  my  father  told  me.    My  father,  he  has  lived.' 

'Has  lived  where?' 

'Has  lived.     Of  course  he  is  dead  —  gone-out.' 

'Oh.     That's  your  abrupt  way  of  putting  it,  is  it?' 

Bennett  interrupted.  'It  is  possible  I  have  done  the  boy  an 
injustice.  He  is  certainly  white,  though  evidently  neglected.  I 
am  sure  I  must  have  bruised  him.  I  do  not  think  spirits ' 

'Get  him  a  glass  of  sherry,  then,  and  let  him  sit  down  on  the  bed. 
Now,  Kim,'  continued  Father  Victor,  'no  one  is  going  to  hurt  you. 
Drink  that  down  and  tell  us  about  yourself.  The  truth,  if  you've 
no  objection.' 

Kim  coughed  a  little  as  he  put  down  the  empty  glass,  and  con- 
sidered. This  seemed  a  time  when  truth  was  desirable.  Small 
boys  who  prowl  about  camps  are  generally  turned  out  after  a  whip- 
ping. But  he  had  received  no  stripes;  the  amulet  was  evidently 
working  in  his  favour,  and  it  looked  as  though  the  Umballa  horo- 
scope and  the  few  words  that  he  could  remember  of  his  father's 
maunderings  were  fitting  in  most  miraculously.  Else  why  did 
the  fat  padre  seem  so  impressed,  and  why  the  glass  of  hot  yellow 
wine  from  the  lean  one? 

'My  father,  he  is  dead  in  Lahore  city  since  I  was  very  little.  The 
woman,  she  kept  kabarri  shop  near  where  the  ticca- gharries  are.' 
Kim  began  with  a  plunge,  not  quite  sure  how  far  the  truth  would 
serve  him. 

'Your  mother?' 


KIM  107 

'No,'  —  with  a  gesture  of  disgust.  'She  went  out  when  I  was 
born.  My  father,  he  got  these  papers  from  the  Jadoo-Gher  — 
what  do  you  call  that?'  (Bennett  nodded)  'because  he  was  in  - 
good-standing.  What  do  you  call  that?'  (again  Bennett  nodded). 
'My  father  told  me  that.  He  said  too,  and  also  the  Brahmin  who 
made  the  drawing  in  the  dust  at  Umballa  two  days  ago,  he  said, 
that  I  shall  find  a  Red  Bull  on  a  green  field  and  that  the  Bull  shall 
help  me.' 

'A  phenomenal  little  liar,'  muttered  Bennett. 

'Powers  of  Darkness  below,  what  a  country!'  murmured  Father 
Victor.  'Go  on,  Kim,' 

'I  did  not  thieve.  Besides,  I  am  at  present  disciple  of  a  very 
holy  man.  He  is  sitting  outside.  We  saw  two  men  come  with 

flags,  making  the  place  ready.  That  is  always  so  in  a  dream,  or  on 
account  of  a  —  a  —  prophecy.  So  I  knew  it  was  come  true.  I 
saw  the  Red  Bull  on  the  green  field,  and  my  father  he  said:  "Nine 
hundred  pukka  devils  and  the  colonel  riding  on  a  horse  will  look 
after  you  when  you  find  the  Red  Bull ! "  I  did  not  know  what  to  do 
when  I  saw  the  Bull,  but  I  went  away  and  I  came  again  when  it  was 
dark.  I  wanted  to  see  the  Bull  again,  and  I  saw  the  Bull  again 
with  the  —  the  Sahibs  praying  to  it.  I  think  the  Bull  shall  help 
me.  The  holy  man  said  so  too.  He  is  sitting  outside.  Will  you 
hurt  him,  if  I  call  him  a  shout  now?  He  is  very  holy.  He  can 
witness  to  all  the  things  I  say,  and  he  knows  I  am  not  a  thief.' 

'Officers  praying  to  a  bull!  What  in  the  world  do  you  make  of 
that?'  said  Bennett.  'Disciple of  a  holy  man!  Is  the  boy  mad?' 

'  It's  O'Hara's  boy,  sure  enough.  O'Hara's  boy  leagued  with  all 
the  Powers  of  Darkness.  It's  very  much  what  his  father  would 
have  done  —  if  he  was  drunk.  We'd  better  invite  the  confederate. 
He  may  know  something.' 


io8  KIM 

'He  does  not  know  anything/  said  Kim.  'I  will  show  you  him  if 
you  come.  He  is  my  master.  Then  afterwards  we  can  go  away/ 

1  Powers  of  Darkness!'  was  all  that  Father  Victor  could  say,  as 
Bennett  marched  off,  with  a  firm  hand  on  Kim's  shoulder. 

They  found  the  lama  where  he  had  dropped. 

'The  search  is  at  an  end  for  me,'  shouted  Kim  in  the  vernacular. 
'I  have  found  the  Bull,  but  God  knows  what  comes  next.  They 
will  not  hurt  you.  Come  to  the  fat  priest's  tent  with  this  thin  man 
and  see  the  end.  It  is  all  new  and  they  cannot  talk  Hindi.  They 
are  only  uncurried  donkeys.' 

'Then  it  is  not  well  to  make  a  jest  of  their  ignorance,'  the  lama 
returned.  'I  am  glad  if  thou  art  rejoiced,  chela.9 

Dignified  and  unsuspicious,  he  strode  into  the  little  tent,  made 
his  salutation  to  the  amazed  Father  Victor,  and  sat  down  by  the 
open  charcoal  brazier.  The  yellow  lining  of  the  tent  reflected  in 
the  lamplight  made  his  face  almost  orange. 

Bennett  looked  at  him  with  the  triple-ringed  uninterest  of  a 
creed  that  lumps  nine-tenths  of  the  world  under  the  title  of  'hea- 
then.' 

'And  what  was  the  end  of  the  search?  What  gift  has  the  Red 
Bull  brought?'  The  lama  addressed  himself  to  Kim. 

'He  says,  "What  are  you  going  to  do?'  Bennett  was  staring 
uneasily  at  Father  Victor,  and  Kim,  for  his  own  ends,  took  upon 
himself  the  office  of  interpreter. 

'  I  cannot  see  what  concern  this  faquir  has  with  the  boy,  who  is 
probably  his  dupe  or  his  confederate,'  Bennett  began.  'We  can- 
not allow  an  English  boy Assuming  that  he  is  the  son 

of  a  Mason,  the  sooner  he  goes  to  the  Masonic  Orphanage  the 
better.' 

'Ah!     That's   your   opinion    as    Secretary   to   the  Regimental 


K  I  M  109 

Lodge,'  said  Father  Victor;  'but  we  might  as  well  tell  the  old  man 
what  we  are  going  to  do.  He  doesn't  look  like  a  villain.' 

'My  experience  is  that  one  can  never  fathom  the  Oriental  mind. 
Now  Kimball,  I  wish  you  to  tell  this  man  what  I  say  —  word  for 
word.' 

Kim  gathered  the  import  of  the  next  few  sentences  and  began 
thus: 

'Holy  One,  the  thin  fool  who  looks  like  a  camel  says  that  I  am 
the  son  of  a  Sahib.' 

'But  how?' 

'Oh,  it  is  true.  I  knew  it  since  my  birth,  but  he  could  only  find 
it  out  by  rending  the  amulet  from  my  neck  and  reading  all  the 
papers.  He  thinks  that  once  a  Sahib  is  always  a  Sahib,  and  be- 
tween the  two  of  them  they  purpose  to  keep  me  in  this  regiment  or 
send  me  to  a  madrissah  (a  school).  I  have  always  avoided  that. 
The  fat  fool  is  of  one  mind  and  the  camel-like  one  of  another.  But 
that  is  no  odds.  I  may  spend  one  night  here  and  perhaps  the  next. 
Then  I  will  run  away  and  return  to  thee.' 

'But  tell  them  that  thou  art  my  chela.  Tell  them  how  thou 
didst  come  to  me  when  I  was  faint  and  bewildered.  Tell  them  of 
our  Search,  and  they  will  surely  let  thee  go  now.' 

'I  have  already  told  them.  They  laugh,  and  they  talk  of  the 
police.' 

'What  are  you  saying?'  asked  Mr.  Bennett. 

'Oah.  He  only  says  that  if  you  do  not  let  me  go  it  will  stop  him 
in  his  business  —  his  ur-gent  private  af-fairs.'  This  last  was  a 
reminiscence  of  some  talk  with  a  Eurasian  clerk  in  the  Canal  de- 
partment, but  it  only  produced  a  smile,  which  nettled  him.  'And 
if  you  did  know  what  his  business  was  you  would  not  be  in  such  a 
beastly  hurry  to  interfere.' 


no  KIM 

'What  is  it  then?'  said  Father  Victor,  not  without  sympathy,  as 
he  watched  the  lama's  face. 

'There  is  a  river  in  this  country  which  he  wishes  to  find  so  verree 

much.  It  was  put  out  by  an  arrow  which '  Kim  tapped  his 

foot  impatiently  as  he  translated  in  his  own  mind  from  the  ver- 
nacular to  his  clumsy  English.  'Oah,  it  was  made  by  our  Lord 
God  Buddha  you  know,  and  if  you  wash  there  you  are  washed  away 
from  all  your  sins  and  made  as  white  as  cotton- wool.'  (Kim  had 
heard  mission-talk  in  his  time.)  'I  am  his  disciple,  and  we  must 
find  that  river.  It  is  verree  valuable  to  us.' 

'Say  that  again,'  said  Bennett.  Kim  obeyed,  with  amplifica- 
tions. 

'But  this  is  mere  blasphemy,'  said  the  Church  of  England  chap- 
lain. 

'Tck!  Tck!'  said  Father  Victor  sympathetically.  '  I'd  give  a 
good  deal  to  be  able  to  talk  the  vernacular.  A  river  that  washes 
away  sin !  And  how  long  have  you  two  been  looking  for  it  ? ' 

'Oh,  many  days.  Now  we  wish  to  go  away  and  look  for  it  again. 
It  is  not  here,  you  see.' 

'I  see,'  said  Father  Victor  gravely.  'But  he  can't  go  on  in  that 
old  man's  company.  It  would  be  different,  Kim,  if  you  were  not  a 
soldier's  son.  Tell  him  that  the  regiment  will  take  care  of  you  and 
make  you  as  good  a  man  as  your  -  -  as  good  a  man  as  can  be.  Tell 
him  that  if  he  believes  in  miracles  he  must  believe  that ' 

'There  is  no  need  to  play  on  his  credulity,'  Bennett  interrupted. 

'I'm  doing  no  such  thing.  He  must  believe  that  the  boy's  com- 
ing here  —  to  his  own  regiment  —  in  search  of  his  Red  Bull  is  in 
the  nature  of  a  miracle.  Consider  the  chances  against  it,  Bennett. 
This  one  boy  in  all  India,  and  our  regiment  of  all  others  on  the  line 
o'  march  for  him  to  meet  with  ?  It's  predestined  on  the  face  of  it. 


KIM  in 

Yes,  tell  him  it's  Kismet.     Kismet,  mallum  (do  you  understand)?' 

He  turned  towards  the  lama,  to  whom  he  might  as  well  have 
talked  of  Mesopotamia. 

'They  say,'  —  the  old  man's  eye  lighted  at  Kim's  speech,  — 
'they  say  that  the  meaning  of  my  horoscope  is  now  accomplished, 
and  that  being  led  back  —  though  as  thou  knowest  I  went  out  of 
curiosity  —  to  these  people  and  their  Red  Bull  I  must  needs  go 
to  a  madrissah  and  be  turned  into  a  Sahib.  Now  I  make  pretence 
of  agreement,  for  at  the  worst  it  will  be  but  a  few  meals  eaten  away 
from  thee.  Then  I  will  slip  away  and  follow  down  the  road  to 
Saharunpore.  Therefore,  Holy  One,  keep  with  that  Kulu  woman 
—  on  no  account  stray  far  from  her  ruth  till  I  come  again.  Past 
question,  my  sign  is  of  war  and  of  armed  men.  See  how  they  have 
given  me  wine  to  drink  and  sat  me  upon  a  chair  of  honour!  My 
father  must  have  been  some  great  person.  So  if  they  raise  me  to 
honour  among  them,  good.  If  not,  good  again.  However  it  goes, 
I  will  run  back  to  thee  when  I  am  tired.  But  stay  with  the  Raj- 
putni,  or  I  shall  miss  thy  feet.  .  .  .  Oah,  yess,'  said  the  boy 
'I  have  told  him  everything  you  tell  me  to  say.' 

'And  I  cannot  see  any  need  why  he  should  wait,'  said  Bennett, 
feeling  in  his  trouser-pocket.  'We  can  investigate  the  details 
later  —  and  I  will  give  him  a  ru ' 

'Give  him  time.  May  be  he's  fond  of  the  lad,'  said  Father  Vic- 
tor, half  arresting  the  clergyman's  motion. 

The  lama  dragged  forth  his  rosary  and  pulled  his  huge  hat-brim 
over  his  eyes. 

'What  can  he  want  now?' 

'He  says'  — Kim  put  up  one  hand.  'He  says:  Be  quiett.  He 
wants  to  speak  to  me  by  himself.  You  see  you  do  not  know  one 
little  word  of  what  he  says,  and  I  think  if  you  talk  he  will  perhaps 


ii2  KIM 

give  you  very  bad  curses.  When  he  takes  those  beads  like  that, 
you  see  he  always  wants  to  be  quiett.' 

The  two  Englishmen  sat  overwhelmed,  but  there  was  a  look  in 
Bennett's  eye  that  promised  ill  for  Kim  when  he  should  be  relaxed 
to  the  religious  arm. 

'A  Sahib  and  the  son  of  a  Sahib '  The  lama's  voice  was 

harsh  with  pain.  'But  no  white  man  knows  the  land  and  the  cus- 
toms of  the  land  as  thou  knowest.  How  comes  it  this  is  true?' 

'God  knows,  Holy  One:  but  remember  it  is  only  for  a  night  or 
two.  Remember,  I  can  change  swiftly.  It  will  all  be  as  it  was 
when  I  first  spoke  to  thee  under  Zam-Zammeh,  the  great  gun ' 

'As  a  boy  in  the  dress  of  white  men  —  when  I  first  went  to  the 
Wonder  House.  And  a  second  time  thou  wast  a  Hindu.  What 
shall  the  third  incarnation  be?'  He  chuckled  drearily.  'Ah, 
chela,  thou  hast  done  a  wrong  to  an  old  man  because  my  heart  went 
out  to  thee.' 

'And  mine  to  thee.  But  how  could  I  know  that  the  Red  Bull 
would  bring  me  to  this  business?' 

The  lama  covered  his  face  afresh,  and  nervously  rattled  the 
rosary.  Kim  squatted  beside  him  and  laid  hold  upon  a  fold  of  his 
clothing. 

'Now  it  is  understood  that  the  boy  is  a  Sahib?'  he  went  on  in  a 
muffled  tone.  'Such  a  Sahib  as  was  he  who  kept  the  images  in  the 
Wonder  House.'  The  lama's  experience  of  white  men  was  limited. 
He  seemed  to  be  repeating  a  lesson.  'So  then  it  is  not  seemly  that 
he  should  do  other  than  as  the  Sahibs  do.  He  must  go  back  to  his 
own  people.' 

'For  a  day  and  a  night  and  a  day,'  Kim  pleaded. 

'No  ye  don't!'  Father  Victor  saw  Kim  edging  towards  the  door, 
and  interposed  a  strong  leg. 


KIM  113 

'I  do  not  understand  the  customs  of  white  men.  The  Priest  of 
the  Images  in  the  Wonder  House  in  Lahore  was  more  courteous 
than  the  thin  one  here.  This  boy  will  be  taken  from  me.  They 
will  make  a  Sahib  of  my  disciple?  Woe  to  me,  how  shall  I  find  my 
river?  Have  they  no  disciples?  Ask.' 

'He  says  he  is  very  sorry  that  he  cannot  find  the  river  now  any 
more.  He  says,  Why  have  you  no  disciples  and  stop  bothering 
him?  He  wants  to  be  washed  of  his  sins.' 

Neither  Bennett  nor  Father  Victor  found  an  answer  ready. 

Said  Kim  in  English,  distressed  for  the  lama's  agony:  'I  think 
if  you  will  let  me  go  now  we  will  walk  away  quietly  and  not  steal. 
We  will  look  for  that  river  like  before  I  was  caught.  I  wish  I  did 
not  come  here  to  find  the  Red  Bull  and  all  that  sort  of  thing.  I  do 
not  want  it.' 

'It's  the  very  best  day's  work  you  ever  did  for  yourself,  young 
man,'  said  Bennett. 

'Good  heavens,  I  don't  know  how  to  console  him,'  said  Father 
Victor,  watching  the  lama  intently.  'He  can't  take  the  boy  away 
with  him,  and  yet  he's  a  good  man  —  I'm  sure  he's  a  good  man. 
Bennett,  if  you  give  him  that  rupee  he'll  curse  you  root  and 
branch.' 

They  listened  to  each  other's  breathing  —  three  —  five  full 
minutes.  Then  the  lama  raised  his  head,  and  looked  forth  across 
them  into  space  and  emptiness. 

'And  I  am  a  preacher  of  the  Way,'  he  said  bitterly.  'The  sin  is 
mine  and  the  punishment  is  mine.  I  made  believe  to  myself  — 
for  now  I  see  it  was  but  make-belief  —  that  thou  wast  sent  to  me  to 
aid  in  the  Search.  So  my  heart  went  out  to  thee  for  thy  charity 
and  thy  courtesy  and  the  wisdom  of  thy  little  years.  But  those 
who  follow  the  Way  must  permit  not  the  fire  of  any  desire  or  at- 


n4  KIM 

tachment,  for  that  is  all  illusion.  As  says  .  .  .'  He  quoted 
an  old,  old  Chinese  text,  backed  it  with  another,  and  reinforced 
these  with  a  third.  'I  stepped  aside  from  the  Way,  my  chela.  It 
was  no  fault  of  thine.  I  delighted  in  the  sight  of  life,  the  new 
people  upon  the  roads,  and  in  thy  joy  at  seeing  these  things.  I 
was  pleased  with  thee  who  should  have  considered  my  Search  and 
my  Search  alone.  Now  I  am  sorrowful  because  thou  art  taken 

away  and  my  river  is  far  from  me.  It  is  the  Law  which  I  have 
broken.' 

*  Powers  of  Darkness  below!'  said  Father  Victor,  who  heard  the 
pain  in  every  sentence,  but  understood  no  word. 

'I  see  now  that  the  sign  of  the  Red  Bull  was  a  sign  for  me  as  well 
as  for  thee.  All  desire  is  red  —  and  evil.  I  will  do  penance  and 
find  my  river  alone.' 

'At  least  go  back  to  the  Kulu  woman,'  said  Kim,  'otherwise 
thou  wilt  be  lost  upon  the  roads.  She  will  feed  thee  till  I  run  back 
to  thee.' 

The  lama  waved  a  hand  to  show  that  the  matter  was  finally 
settled  in  his  mind. 

'Now,'  -his  tone  altered  as  he  turned  to  Kim,  —  'what  will 
they  do  with  thee?  At  least  I  can  acquire  merit  for  past  ill.' 

'Make  me  a  Sahib  —  so  they  think.  The  day  after  to-morrow  I 
return.  No.  Do  not  grieve.' 

'Of  what  sort?  Such  an  one  as  thyself  or  that  man?'  He 
pointed  to  Father  Victor.  'Such  an  one  as  those  I  saw  this  even- 
ing—  men  wearing  swords  and  stamping  heavily?' 

'May  be.' 

'That  is  not  well.  These  men  only  follow  desire  and  come  to 
emptiness.  Thou  must  not  be  of  this  sort.' 

'The  Umballa  priest  said  that  my  Star  was  War,'  Kim  inter- 


KIM  115 

jected.  'I  will  ask  these  fools  —  but  there  is  truly  no  need.  I 
will  run  away  this  night,  for  all  I  wanted  to  see  the  new 
things !' 

Kim  put  two  or  three  questions  in  English  to  Father  Victor, 
translating  the  replies  to  the  lama. 

Then:  'He  says,  "You  take  him  from  me  and  you  cannot  say 
what  you  will  make  him."  He  says,  "Tell  me  before  I  go,  for  it  is 
not  a  small  thing  to  make  a  child. " 

'You  will  be  sent  to  a  school.  Later  on,  we  shall  see.  Kimball 
I  suppose  you'd  like  to  be  a  soldier?' 

lGorah-log  (white-folk).  Noah!  Noah!'  Kim  shook  his  head 
violently.  There  was  nothing  in  his  composition  to  which  drill 
and  routine  appealed.  'I  will  not  be  a  soldier.' 

'You  will  be  what  you  are  told  to  be,'  said  Bennett;  'and  you 
should  be  grateful  that  we're  going  to  help  you.' 

Kim  smiled  compassionately.  If  these  men  lay  under  the  de- 
lusion that  he  would  do  anything  that  he  did  not  choose,  so  much 
the  better. 

Another  long  silence  followed.  Bennett  fidgeted  with  impa- 
tience, and  suggested  calling  a  sentry  to  evict  the  faquir. 

'Do  they  give  or  sell  learning  among  the  Sahibs?  Ask  them,' 
said  the  lama,  and  Kim  interpreted. 

'They  say  that  money  is  paid  to  the  teacher  —  but  that  money 
the  regiment  will  give.  .  .  .  What  need?  It  is  only  for  a 
night.' 

'And  the  more  money  is  paid  the  better  learning  is  given? '  The 
lama  disregarded  Kim's  plans  for  an  early  flight.  'It  is  no  wrong 
to  pay  for  learning;  to  help  the  ignorant  to  wisdom  is  always  a 
merit.'  The  rosary  clicked  furiously  as  an  abacus.  Then  the 
lama  raised  his  head. 


Ii6  KIM 

*  Ask  them  for  how  much  money  do  they  give  a  wise  and  suitable 
teaching?  and  in  what  city  is  that  teaching  given?' 

*  Well,'  said  Father  Victor  in  English,  when  Kim  had  translated, 
'that  depends.     The  regiment  would  pay  for  you  all  the  time  you 
are  at  the  Military  Orphanage;  or  you  might  go  on  the  Punjab 
Masonic  Orphanage's  list  (not  that  he  or  you  'ud  understand  what 
that  means) ;  but  the  best  schooling  a  boy  can  get  in  India  is,  of 
course,  at  St.  Xavier's  in  Partibus  at  Lucknow.'     This  took  some 
time  to  interpret,  for  Bennett  wished  to  cut  it  short. 

'He  wants  to  know  how  much?'  said  Kim  placidly. 

'Two  or  three  hundred  rupees  a  year.'  Father  Victor  was  long 
past  any  sense  of  amazement.  Bennett  did  not  understand. 

'He  says:  "Write  that  name  and  the  money  upon  a  paper  and 
give  it  him."  And  he  says  you  must  write  your  name  below,  be- 
cause he  is  going  to  write  a  letter  in  some  days  to  you.  He  says 
you  are  good  man.  He  says  the  other  man  is  a  fool.  He  is  going 
away.' 

The  lama  rose  suddenly.  'I  followed  my  Search/  he  cried, 
and  was  gone. 

'He'll  run  slap  into  the  sentries,'  cried  Father  Victor,  jumping 
up  as  the  lama  stalked  out;  'but  I  can't  leave  the  boy.'  Kim 
made  swift  motion  to  follow,  but  checked  himself.  There  was  no 
sound  of  challenge  outside.  The  lama  had  disappeared. 

Kim  settled  himself  composedly  on  the  chaplain's  cot.  At 
least  the  lama  had  promised  that  he  would  stay  with  the  Rajput 
woman  from  Kulu,  and  the  rest  was  of  the  smallest  importance. 
It  pleased  him  that  the  two  padres  were  so  evidently  excited. 
They  talked  long  in  undertones,  Father  Victor  urging  some  scheme 
on  Mr.  Bennett,  who  seemed  incredulous.  All  this  was  very  new 
and  fascinating,  but  Kim  felt  sleepy.  They  called  men  into  the 


KIM  117 

tent  —  one  of  them  certainly  was  the  Colonel,  as  his  father  had 
prophesied  —  and  they  asked  him  an  infinity  of  questions,  chiefly 
about  the  woman  who  looked  after  him,  all  of  which  Kim  answered 
truthfully.  They  did  not  seem  to  think  the  woman  was  a  good 
guardian. 

After  all,  this  was  the  newest  of  his  experiences.  Sooner  or 
later,  if  he  chose,  he  could  escape  into  the  great,  gray,  formless 
India,  outside  tents  and  padres  and  colonels.  Meantime,  if  the 
Sahibs  were  to  be  impressed,  he  would  do  his  best  to  impress  them. 
He  too  was  a  white  man. 

After  much  talk  that  he  could  not  comprehend,  they  handed 
him  over  to  a  sergeant,  who  had  strict  instructions  not  to  let  him 
escape.  The  regiment  would  go  on  to  Umballa,  and  Kim  would  be 
sent  up,  partly  at  the  expense  of  the  Lodge  and  in  part  by  sub- 
scription, to  a  place  called  Sanawar. 

'  It's  miraculous  past  all  whooping,  Colonel,'  said  Father  Victor, 
when  he  had  talked  without  a  break  for  ten  minutes.  'His  Bud- 
dhist friend  has  levanted  after  taking  my  name  and  address.  I 
can't  quite  make  out  whether  he'll  pay  for  the  boy's  education  or 
whether  he  is  preparing  some  sort  of  witchcraft  on  his  own  ac- 
count.' Then  to  Kim: 

1  You'll  live  to  be  grateful  to  your  friend  the  Red  Bull  yet.  We'll 
make  a  man  of  you  at  Sanawar  —  even  at  the  price  o'  making  you 
a  Protestant.' 

'  Certainly  —  most  certainly,'  said  Bennett. 

'But  you  will  not  go  to  Sanawar,'  said  Kim. 

'But  we  will  go  to  Sanawar,  little  man.  That's  the  order  of  the 
Commander-in-Chief,  who's  a  trifle  more  important  than  Private 
O'Hara's  son.' 

'You  will  not  go  to  Sanawar.     You  will  go  to  thee  war.' 


ii8  KIM 

There  was  a  shout  of  laughter  from  the  full  tent. 

*  When  you  know  your  regiment  a  trifle  better  you  won't  confuse 
the  line  of  march  with  line  of  battle,  Kim.     We  hope  to  go  to  "the 
war"  some  time.' 

'Oah,  I  know  all  thatt.'  Kim  drew  his  bow  again  at  a  venture. 
If  they  were  not  going  to  the  war,  at  least  they  did  not  know  what 
he  knew  of  the  talk  in  the  verandah  at  Umballa. 

CI  know  you  are  not  at  thee  war  now;  but  I  tell  you  that  as  soon 
as  you  get  to  Umballa  you  will  be  sent  to  the  war  —  the  new  war. 
It  is  a  war  of  eight  thousand  men,  besides  the  guns.' 

*  That's  explicit.  D'you  add  prophecy  to  your  other  gifts  ?    Take 
him  along,  Sergeant.     You'll  have  to  take  up  a  suit  for  him  from 
the  Drums,  an'  have  a  care  he  doesn't  slip  through  your  fingers. 
Who  says  the  age  of  miracles  is  gone  by?     I  think  I'll  go  to  bed. 
My  poor  mind's  weakening.' 

At  the  far  end  of  the  camp,  silent  as  a  wild  animal,  an  hour  later 
sat  Kim,  newly  washed  all  over,  in  a  horrible  stuff  suit  that  rasped 
his  arms  and  legs. 

'A  most  amazin'  young  bird,'  said  the  sergeant.  'He  turns  up 
in  charge  of  a  yellow-headed  buck-Brahmin  priest,  with  his  father's 
lodge  certificates  round  his  neck,  talkin'  God  knows  what  all  of  a 
red  bull.  The  buck-Brahmin  evaporates  without  explanations, 
an'  the  bhoy  sets  cross-legged  on  the  chaplain's  bed  prophesyin' 
bloody  war  to  the  men  at  large.  Injia's  a  wild  land  for  a  God- 
fearin'  man.  I'll  just  tie  his  leg  to  the  tent-pole  in  case  he'll  go 
through  the  roof  in  blue  flame.  What  did  ye  say  about  the  war?' 

'Eight  thousand  men,  besides  guns,'  said  Kim.  'Very  soon  you 
will  see.' 

1  You're  a  consolin'  little  imp.  Lie  down  between  the  drums  an'  go 
to  bye-bye.  Those  two  boys  beside  ye  will  watch  your  slumbers.' 


CHAPTER  VI 

Now  I  remember  comrades  — 

Old  playmates  on  new  seas  — 
Whenas  we  traded  orpiment 

Among  the  savages: 
Ten  thousand  leagues  to  southward, 

And  thirty  years  removed  — 
They  knew  not  noble  Valdez, 

But  me  they  knew  and  loved. 

Song  of  Diego  Valdez. 

VERY  early  in  the  morning  the  white  tents  came  down,  and 
disappeared  as  the  Mavericks  took  the  road  to  Umballa.  It 
did  not  skirt  the  resting-place,  and  Kim  trudging  beside  a 
baggage-cart  under  fire  of  comments  from  soldiers'  wives,  was 
not  so  confident  as  overnight.  He  discovered  that  he  was 
closely  watched  —  Father  Victor  on  the  one  side,  and  Mr.  Bennett 
on  the  other. 

In  the  forenoon  the  column  checked.  A  camel-orderly  handed 
the  Colonel  a  letter.  He  read  it,  and  spoke  to  a  Major.  Half  a 
mile  in  the  rear,  Kim  heard  a  hoarse  and  joyful  clamour  rolling 
down  on  him  through  the  thick  dust.  Then  some  one  beat  him 
on  the  back,  crying:  'Tell  us  how  ye  knew,  ye  little  limb  of 
Satan?  Father  dear,  see  if  ye  can  make  him  tell.' 

A  pony  ranged  alongside,  and  he  was  hauled  on  to  the  priest's 
saddle-bow. 

'Now,  my  son,  your  prophecy  of  last  night  has  come  true.  Our 
orders  are  to  entrain  at  Umballa  for  the  front  to-morrow.' 

119 


120  KIM 

'  What  is  that?'  said  Kim,  for  'front'  and  'entrain9  were  new  words 
to  him. 

'We  are  going  to  "thee  war,"  as  you  called  it.' 

1  Of  course  you  are  going  to  thee  war.     I  said  last  night.' 

'  Ye  did;  but,  Powers  o'  Darkness,  how  did  ye  know?' 

Kim's  eyes  sparkled.  He  shut  his  lips,  nodded  his  head,  and 
looked  unspeakable  things.  The  chaplain  moved  on  through  the 
dust,  and  privates,  sergeants,  and  subalterns  called  one  another's 
attention  to  the  boy.  The  Colonel,  at  the  head  of  the  column, 
stared  at  him  curiously.  'It  was  probably  some  bazar  rumour,' 
he  said;  'but  even  then,'  —he  referred  to  the  paper  in  his  hand, 

-'hang  it  all,  the  thing  was  only  decided  within  the  last  forty- 
eight  hours.' 

'Are  there  many  more  like  you  in  India?'  said  Father  Victor, 
'or  are  you  by  way  o'  being  a  lusus  naturae?' 

'Now  I  have  told  you,'  said  the  boy,  'will  you  let  me  go  back  to 
my  old  man?  If  he  has  not  stayed  with  that  woman  from  Kulu, 
I  am  afraid  he  will  die.' 

'By  what  I  saw  of  him  he's  as  well  able  to  take  care  of  himself 
as  you.  No.  Ye've  brought  us  luck,  an'  we're  goin'  to  make  a 
man  of  you.  I'll  take  ye  back  to  your  baggage-cart  and  ye'll 
come  to  me  this  evening.' 

For  the  rest  of  the  day  Kim  found  himself  an  object  of  distin- 
guished consideration  among  a  few  hundred  white  men.  The 
story  of  his  appearance  in  camp,  the  discovery  of  his  parentage, 
and  his  prophecy,  had  lost  nothing  in  the  telling.  A  big,  shapeless 
white  woman  on  a  pile  of  bedding  asked  him  in  a  mysterious  voice 
whether  he  thought  her  husband  would  come  back  from  the  war. 
Kim  reflected  gravely,  and  said  that  he  would,  and  the  woman  gave 
him  food.  In  many  respects,  this  big  procession  that  played  music 


KIM  121 

at  intervals  —  this  crowd  that  talked  and  laughed  so  easily  — 
resembled  a  festival  in  Lahore  city.  So  far,  there  was  no  sign  of 
hard  work,  and  he  resolved  to  lend  the  spectacle  his  patronage. 
At  evening  there  came  out  to  meet  them  bands  of  music,  and  played 
the  Mavericks  into  camp  near  Umballa  railway  station.  That 
was  an  exciting  night.  Men  of  other  regiments  came  to  visit  the 
Mavericks.  The  Mavericks  went  visiting  on  their  own  account. 
Their  pickets  hurried  forth  to  bring  them  back,  met  pickets  of 
strange  regiments  on  the  same  duty;  and,  after  a  while,  the  bugles 
blew  madly  for  more  pickets  with  officers  to  control  the  tumult. 
The  Mavericks  had  a  reputation  for  liveliness  to  live  up  to.  But 
they  fell  in  on  the  platform  next  morning  in  perfect  shape  and  con- 
dition; and  Kim,  left  behind  with  the  sick,  women,  and  boys,  found 
himself  shouting  farewells  with  the  best  as  the  trains  drew  away. 
Life  as  a  Sahib  was  amusing  so  far;  but  he  touched  it  with  a  very 
cautious  hand.  Then  they  marched  him  back  in  charge  of  a  drum- 
mer-boy to  empty,  lime-washed  barracks,  whose  floors  were  cov- 
ered with  rubbish  and  string  and  paper,  and  whose  ceilings  gave 
back  his  lonely  footfall.  Native  fashion,  he  curled  himself  up  on 
a  stripped  cot  and  went  to  sleep.  An  angry  man  stumped  down 
the  verandah,  woke  him  up,  and  said  he  was  a  schoolmaster.  This 
was  enough  for  Kim,  and  he  retired  into  his  shell.  He  could  just 
puzzle  out  the  various  English  police  notices  in  Lahore  city,  be- 
cause they  affected  his  comfort;  and  among  the  many  guests  of 
the  woman  of  the  kabarri  shop  had  been  a  queer  German  who 
painted  scenery  for  the  Parsee  travelling  theatre.  He  told  Kim 
that  he  had  been  con  the  barricades  in  Forty-eight,'  and  therefore 
—  at  least  that  was  how  it  struck  Kim  —  he  would  teach  the  boy 
to  write  in  return  for  food.  Kim  had  been  kicked  as  far  as  single 
letters,  but  did  not  approve  of  the  road  to  learning. 


122  KIM 

'I  do  not  know  anything.  Go  away!'  said  Kim,  scenting  evil. 
Whereupon  the  man  caught  him  by  the  ear,  dragged  him  to  a  room 
in  a  far-off  wing  where  a  dozen  drummer-boys  were  sitting  on 
forms,  and  told  him  to  be  still  if  he  could  do  nothing  else.  This 
he  managed  very  successfully.  The  man  explained  something  or 
other  with  white  lines  on  a  black  board  for  at  least  half  an  hour, 
and  Kim  continued  his  interrupted  nap.  He  did  not  approve  of 
the  present  aspect  of  affairs,  for  this  was  the  very  school  and  dis- 
cipline he  had  spent  two-thirds  of  his  young  life  in  avoiding.  Sud- 
denly a  beautiful  idea  occurred  to  him,  and  he  wondered  that  he 
had  not  thought  of  it  before. 

The  man  dismissed  them,  and  first  to  spring  through  the  ve- 
randah into  the  open  sunshine  was  Kim. 

' 'Ere  you!  'Alt!  Stop!'  said  a  high  voice  at  his  heels.  'I've 
got  to  look  after  you.  My  orders  are  not  to  let  you  out  of  my  sight. 
Where  are  you  goin'?' 

It  was  the  drummer-boy  who  had  been  hanging  round  him  all 
the  forenoon  -  -  a  fat  and  freckled  person  of  about  fourteen,  and 
Kim  loathed  him  from  the  soles  of  his  boots  to  his  cap-ribbons. 

'To  the  bazar  —  to  get  sweets  —  for  you,'  said  Kim,  after 
thought. 

'Well,  the  bazar's  out  o'  bounds.  If  we  go  there  we'll  get  a 
dressing-down.  You  come  back.' 

'How  near  can  we  go?'  Kim  did  not  know  what  bounds  meant, 
but  he  wished  to  be  polite  —  for  the  present. 

"Ow  near?  'Ow  far,  you  mean ?  We  can  go  as  far  as  that  tree 
down  the  road.' 

'Then  I  will  go  there.' 

'All  right.  I  ain't  goin'.  It's  too  'ot.  I  can  watch  you  from 
'ere.  It's  no  good  your  runnin'  away.  If  you  did,  they'd  spot 


'FIRST  i  WILL  TAKE  MY  PAY,' 


THE  LETTER-WRITER  SAID 


KIM  123 

you  by  your  clothes.  That's  regimental  stuff  you're  wearin'. 
There  ain't  a  picket  in  Umballa  wouldn't  'ead  you  back  quicker 
than  you  started  out.' 

This  did  not  impress  Kim  as  much  as  the  knowledge  that  his 
raiment  would  tire  him  out  if  he  tried  to  run.  He  slouched  to  the 
tree  at  the  corner  of  a  bare  road  leading  towards  the  bazar,  and 
eyed  the  natives  as  they  passed.  Most  of  them  were  barrack- 
servants  of  the  lowest  caste.  Kim  hailed  a  sweeper,  who  promptly 
retorted  with  a  piece  of  unnecessary  insolence,  in  the  natural  be- 
lief that  the  European  boy  could  not  understand.  The  low,  quick 
answer  undeceived  him.  Kim  put  his  fettered  soul  into  it,  thank- 
ful for  the  late  chance  to  abuse  somebody  in  the  tongue  he  knew 
best.  'And  now,  go  to  the  nearest  letter-writer  in  the  bazar  and 
tell  him  to  come  here.  I  would  write  a  letter.' 

'But  —  but  what  manner  of  white  man's  son  art  thou,  to  need  a 
bazar  letter-writer?  Is  there  not  a  schoolmaster  in  the  barracks?' 

'Ay;  and  hell  is  full  of  the  same  sort.  Do  my  order,  you  —  you 
Od!  Thy  mother  was  married  under  a  basket!  Servant  of  Lai 
Beg'  (Kim  knew  the  god  of  the  sweepers),  'run  on  my  business  or 
we  will  talk  again.' 

The  sweeper  shuffled  off  in  haste.  'There  is  a  white  boy  by  the 
barracks,  waiting  under  a  tree,  who  is  not  a  white  boy,'  he  stam- 
mered to  the  first  bazar  letter-writer  he  came  across.  'He  needs 
thee.' 

'Will  he  pay?'  said  that  spruce  scribe,  gathering  up  his  desk  and 
pens  and  sealing-wax  all  in  order. 

'I  do  not  know.     He  is  not  like  other  boys.     Go  and  see.' 

Kim  danced  with  impatience  when  the  slim  young  Kayeth  hove 
in  sight.  As  soon  as  his  voice  could  carry  he  cursed  him  volubly. 

'First  I  will  take  my  pay,'  the  letter-writer  said.     'Bad  words 


124  KIM 

have  made  the  price  higher.  But  who  art  them,  dressed  in  that 
fashion,  to  speak  in  this  fashion?' 

'Aha!  That  is  in  the  letter  which  thou  shalt  write.  Never  was 
such  a  tale.  But  I  am  in  no  haste.  Another  writer  will  serve  me. 
Umballa  city  is  as  full  of  them  as  is  Lahore.' 

'Four  annas,'  said  the  writer,  sitting  down  and  spreading  his 
cloth  in  the  shade  of  a  deserted  barrack  wing. 

Mechanically  Kim  squatted  beside  him,  —  squatted  as  only 

the  natives  can,  —  in  spite  of  the  abominable  clinging  trousers. 
The  writer  regarded  him  sideways. 

'That  is  the  price  to  ask  of  Sahibs,'  said  Kim.  'Now  fix  me  a 
true  one.' 

'An  anna  and  a  half.  How  do  I  know,  having  written  the  letter, 
that  thou  wilt  not  run  away?' 

'  I  must  not  go  beyond  this  tree,  and  there  is  also  the  stamp  to  be 
considered.' 

'I  get  no  commission  on  the  price  of  the  stamp.  Once  more, 
what  manner  of  white  boy  art  thou?' 

'That  shall  be  said  in  the  letter,  which  is  to  Mahbub  Ali,  the 
horse-dealer  in  the  Kashmir  Serai,  at  Lahore.  He  is  my  friend.' 

'Wonder  on  wonder!'  murmured  the  letter-writer,  dipping  a 
reed  in  the  inkstand.  'To  be  written  in  Hindi?' 

'Assuredly.  To  Mahbub  Ali  then.  Begin.  /  have  come  down 
with  the  old  man  as  far  as  Umballa  in  the  train.  At  Umballa  I  car- 
ried the  news  of  the  bay  mare's  pedigree'  After  what  he  had  seen 
in  the  garden,  he  was  not  going  to  write  of  white  stallions. 

'Slower  a  little.  What  has  a  bay  mare  to  do?  .  .  .  Is  it 
Mahbub  Ali,  the  great  dealer?' 

'Who  else?  I  have  been  in  his  service.  Take  more  ink.  Again. 
As  the  order  was,  so  I  did  it.  We  then  went  on  foot  towards  Ben- 


KIM  125 

ares,  but  on  the  third  day  we  found  a  certain  regiment.  Is  that 
down  ? ' 

'Ay,  pulton?  murmured  the  writer,  all  ears. 

'  /  went  into  their  camp  and  was  caught,  and  by  means  of  the  charm 
about  my  neck,  which  thou  knowest,  it  was  established  that  I  was  the 
son  of  some  man  in  the  regiment;  according  to  the  prophecy  of  the  Red 
Bull,  which  thou  knowest  was  common  talk  of  the  ba**ar?  Kim  waited 
for  this  shaft  to  sink  into  the  letter-writer's  heart,  cleared  his  throat, 
and  continued :  '  A  priest  clothed  me  and  gave  me  a  new  name.  .  . 
One  priest,  however,  was  a  fool.  The  clothes  are  very  heavy,  but  I  am 
a  Sahib  and  my  heart  is  heavy  too.  They  send  me  to  a  school  and  beat 
me.  I  do  not  like  the  air  and  water  here.  Come  then  and  help  me, 
Mahbub  Ali,  or  send  me  some  money,  for  I  have  not  sufficient  to  pay 
the  writer  who  writes  this.9 

'Who  writes  this.  It  is  my  own  fault  that  I  was  tricked.  But 
what  a  tale!  What  a  tale!  Is  it  true  by  any  chance?' 

'It  does  not  profit  to  tell  lies  to  Mahbub  Ali.  It  is  better  to 
help  his  friends  by  lending  them  a  stamp  than  to  ask  questions. 
When  the  money  comes  I  will  repay  in  Umballa.' 

The  writer  grunted  doubtfully,  but  took  a  stamp  out  of  his  desk, 
sealed  the  letter,  handed  it  over  to  Kim,  and  departed.  Mahbub 
Ali's  was  a  name  of  power. 

'That  is  the  way  to  win  a  good  account  with  the  gods,'  Kim 
shouted  after  him. 

'Pay  me  twice  over  when  the  money  comes,'  the  man  cried  over 
his  shoulder. 

'What  was  you  bukkin'  to  that  nigger  about?'  said  the  drummer- 
boy  when  Kim  returned  to  the  verandah.  'I  was  watchin'  you.' 

'Oah.     I  was  only  talkin'  to  him.'  , 

'You  talk  same  as  a  nigger,  don't  you?' 


126  KIM 

'Noah!  Noah!  I  onlee  speak  a  little.  What  shall  we  do 
now  ? ' 

'The  bugles'ill  go  for  dinner  in  arf  a  minute.  My  Gawd!  I 
wish  I'd  gone  up  to  the  front  with  the  regiment.  It's  awful  doin' 
nothin'  but  school  down  'ere.  Don't  you  'ate  it?' 

'Oah  yess!' 

'I'd  run  away  if  I  knew  where  to  go  to,  but,  as  the  men  say,  in 
this  bloomin'  Injia  you're  only  a  prisoner  at  large.  You  can't 
desert  without  bein'  took  back  at  once.  I'm  fair  sick  of  it.' 

'You  have  been  in  Be  —  England?' 

'W'y,  I  only  come  out  last  troopin'  season  with  my  mother.  I 
should  think  I  'ave  been  in  England.  What  an  ignorant  little  beg- 
gar you  are.  You  was  brought  up  in  the  gutter,  wasn't  you?' 

'Oah  yess.  Tell  me  something  about  England.  My  father  he 
did  come  from  there. ' 

Though  he  would  not  say  so,  Kim  of  course  disbelieved  every 
word  the  drummer-boy  spoke  about  the  Liverpool  suburb  which 
was  his  England.  It  passed  the  heavy  time  till  dinner  —  a  most 
unappetizing  meal  served  to  the  boys  and  a  few  invalids  in  a  corner 
of  a  barrack-room.  But  that  he  had  written  to  Mahbub  Ali,  Kim 
would  have  been  almost  depressed.  The  indifference  of  native 
crowds  he  was  used  to;  but  this  loneliness  among  white  men  preyed 
on  him.  He  was  grateful  when,  in  the  course  of  the  afternoon,  a 
big  soldier  took  him  over  to  Father  Victor,  who  lived  in  another 
wing  across  another  dusty  parade-ground.  The  priest  was  lying 
in  a  chair  reading  a  letter  written  in  purple  ink.  He  looked  at  Kim 
more  curiously  than  ever. 

'An'  how  do  you  like  it,  my  son,  as  far  as  you've  gone?  Not 
much  eh?  It  must  be  hard  —  very  hard  on  a  wild  animal.  Lis- 
ten now.  I've  an  amazin'  letter  from  your  friend.' 


KIM  127 

1  Where  is  he?  Is  he  well?  Oah!  If  he  knows  to  write  me  let- 
ters, it  is  all  right.' 

*  You're  fond  of  him  then?' 

'Of  course  I  am  fond  of  him.     He  was  fond  of  me.' 

'It  seems  so  by  the  look  of  this.  He  can't  write  English,  can 
he?' 

'Oah  no.  Not  that  I  know,  but  of  course  he  found  a  letter- 
writer  who  can  write  English  verree  well,  and  so  he  wrote.  I  do 
hope  you  understand.' 

'That  accounts  for  it.  D'you  know  anything  about  his  money 
affairs?'  Kim's  face  showed  that  he  did  not. 

'How  can  I  tell?' 

'That's  what  I'm  askin'.  Now  listen  if  you  can  make  head  or 
tail  o'  this.  We'll  skip  the  first  part.  .  .  .  It's  written  from 
Jagadir  Road.  .  .  .  "Sitting  on  wayside  in  grave  meditation, 
trusting  to  be  favoured  with  your  Honour's  applause  of  present  step, 
which  recommend  your  Honour  to  execute  for  Almighty  God's  sake. 
Education  is  greatest  blessing  if  of  best  sorts.  Otherwise  no  earthly 
use"  Faith,  the  old  man's  hit  the  bull's-eye  that  time.  "If  your 
Honour  condescending  giving  my  boy  best  educations  Xavier"  (I  sup- 
pose that's  St.  Xavier  in  Partibus)  "in  terms  of  our  conversation 
dated  in  your  tent  i$th  instant"  (a  business-like  touch  there!)  "then 
Almighty  God  blessing  your  Honour's  succeedings  to  third  an9 
fourth  generation  and"  —  now  listen!  —  "confide  in  your  Honour's 
humble  servant  for  adequate  remuneration  per  hoondie  per  annum 
three  hundred  rupees  a  year  to  one  expensive  education  St.  Xavier, 
Lucknow,  and  allow  small  time  to  forward  same  per  hoondie  sent  to 
any  part  of  India  as  your  Honour  shall  address  himself.  This  ser- 
vant of  your  Honour  has  presently  no  place  to  lay  crown  of  his  head, 
but  going  to  Benares  by  train  on  account  of  persecution  of  old  woman 


128  KIM 

talking  so  much  and  unanxious  residing  Saharunpore  in  any  domes- 
tic capacity"  Now  what  in  the  world  does  that  mean?' 

'She  has  asked  him  to  be  family  priest  at  Saharunpore.  He 
would  not  do  that  on  account  of  his  river.  She  did  talk  a  very 
great  deal.' 

'It's  clear  to  you,  is  it?  It  beats  me  altogether.  "So  going  to 
Benares,  where  -will  find  address  and  forward  rupees  for  boy  who  is 
apple  of  eye,  and  for  Almighty  God's  sake  execute  this  education,  and 
your  petitioner  as  in  duty  bound  shall  ever  awfully  pray.  Written 
by  Sobrao  Satai,  Failed  entrance  Allahabad  University,  for  Venerable 
Teshoo  lama  the  priest  of  Suchzen  looking  for  a  river,  address  care  of 
Tirthanker's  Temple,  Benares.  P.M. —  Please  note  boy  is  apple  of 
eye,  and  rupees  shall  be  sent  per  hoondie  three  hundred  per  annum. 
For  God  Almighty's  sake" 

'Now  is  that  ravin'  lunacy  or  a  business  proposition?  I  ask  you, 
because  I'm  fairly  at  my  wits'  end.' 

'He  says  he  will  give  me  three  hundred  rupees  a  year,  so  he  will 
give  me  them.' 

'Oh,  that's  the  way  you  look  at  it,  is  it?' 

'Of  course.     If  he  says  so!' 

The  priest  whistled;  then  he  addressed  Kim  as  an  equal. 

'I  don't  believe  it;  but  we'll  see.  You  were  goin'  off  to-day  to 
the  Military  Orphanage  at  Sanawar,  where  the  regiment  would 
keep  you  till  you  were  old  enough  to  enlist.  Ye'd  be  brought  up  to 
the  Church  of  England.  Bennett  arranged  for  that.  On  the 
other  hand,  if  ye  go  to  St.  Xavier's  ye'll  get  a  better  education  an* 
—  an'  can  have  your  choice  of  religions.  D'ye  see  my  dilemma?' 

Kim  saw  nothing  save  a  vision  of  the  lama  going  south  in  a  train 
with  none  to  beg  for  him. 

'Like  most  people,  I'm  going  to  temporize.     If  your  friend  sends 


KIM  129 

the  money  from  Benares  —  Powers  of  Darkness  below,  where's  a 
street-beggar  to  raise  three  hundred  rupees?  —  ye'll  go  down  to 
Lucknow  and  I'll  pay  your  fare,  because  I  can't  touch  the  sub- 
scription-money if  I'm  going,  as  it's  my  duty,  to  make  ye  a 
Catholic.  If  he  doesn't,  ye'll  go  to  the  Military  Orphanage  at  the 
regiment's  expense.  I'll  allow  three  days'  grace  to  the  old  man. 
Even  then,  if  he  fails  in  his  payments  later  on  ...  but 
it's  beyond  me.  We  can  only  walk  one  step  at  a  time  in  this  world, 
praise  God.  An'  they  sent  Bennett  to  the  front  an'  left  me  behind. 
He  can't  expect  everything.' 

'Oah  yess,'  said  Kim  vaguely. 

'D'ye  know,'  the  priest  leaned  forward,  'I'd  give  a  month's  pay 
to  find  what's  goin'  on  inside  that  little  round  head  of  yours.' 

'There  is  nothing,'  said  Kim,  and  scratched  it.  He  was  wonder- 
ing whether  Mahbub  Ali  would  send  him  as  much  as  a  whole  rupee. 
Then  he  could  pay  the  letter-writer  and  write  letters  to  the  lama 
at  Benares.  Perhaps  Mahbub  Ali  would  visit  him  next  time  he 
came  south  with  horses.  Surely  Mahbub  Ali  must  know  that 
Kim's  delivery  of  the  letter  to  the  officer  atUmballa  had  caused  the 
great  war  which  the  men  and  boys  had  discussed  so  loudly  over  the 
dinner-tables.  But  if  Mahbub  Ali  did  not  know  this,  it  would  be 
very  unsafe  to  tell  him  so.  Mahbub  Ali  was  severe  with  boys  who 
knew,  or  thougnt  they  knew,  too  much. 

'Well,  till  I  get  further  news'  —  Father  Victor's  voice  inter- 
rupted the  reverie  —  'ye  can  run  along  and  play  with  the  other 
boys.  They'll  teach  ye  something  —  but  I  don't  think  ye'll  like 
it.' 

The  day  dragged  to  its  weary  end.  When  he  wished  to  sleep  he 
was  instructed  how  to  fold  up  his  clothes  and  set  out  his  boots,  the 
other  boys  deriding.  Bugles  waked  him  in  the  dawn;  the  school- 


130  KIM 

master  caught  him  after  breakfast,  thrust  a  page  of  meaningless 
characters  under  his  nose,  gave  them  senseless  names,  and  whacked 
him  without  reason.  Kim  thought  seriously  of  poisoning  him  with 
opium  borrowed  from  a  barrack-sweeper,  but  reflected  that,  as 
they  all  ate  at  one  table  in  public  (this  was  peculiarly  revolting 
to  Kim,  who  preferred  to  turn  his  back  on  the  world  at  meals), 
the  stroke  might  be  dangerous.  Then  he  thought  of  running  off 
to  the  village  where  the  priest  had  tried  to  drug  the  lama  —  the 
village  where  the  old  soldier  lived.  It  could  only  be  a  few  miles 
to  the  westward.  The  heavy  trousers  and  jacket  seemed  to  cripple 
body  and  mind  alike,  and  he  abandoned  the  project  with  a  sigh, 
and  fell  back,  Oriental  fashion,  on  time  and  chance.  Three  days  of 
torment  passed  in  the  big,  echoing  white  rooms.  He  walked  out  of 
afternoons  under  escort  of  the  drummer-boy,  and  all  he  heard  from 
his  companion  were  the  few  useless  words  which  seemed  to  make 
two-thirds  of  the  white  man's  abuse.  Kim  knew  and  despised 
them  all  long  ago.  The  boy  resented  his  silence  and  lack  of  in- 
terest by  beating  him,  as  was  only  natural.  He  did  not  care  for 
any  of  the  bazars  which  were  in  bounds.  He  called  all  natives 
'niggers';  yet  servants  and  sweepers  called  him  abominable  names 
to  his  face,  and,  misled  by  their  deferential  attitude,  he  never 
understood.  This  somewhat  consoled  him  for  the  beatings. 

On  the  morning  of  the  fourth  day  a  judgment  overtook  that 
drummer.  They  had  gone  out  together  towards  Umballa  race- 
course. He  returned  alone,  weeping,  with  news  that  young 
O'Hara,  to  whom  he  had  been  doing  nothing  in  particular,  had 
hailed  a  scarlet-bearded  nigger  on  horseback;  that  the  nigger  then 
and  there  laid  into  him  with  a  peculiarly  adhesive  quirt,  picked  up 
young  O'Hara,  and  bore  him  off  at  full  gallop.  These  tidings  came 
to  Father  Victor,  and  he  drew  down  his  long  upper  lip.  He  had 


KIM  131 

already  been  sufficiently  startled  by  a  letter  from  the  Temple  of  the 
Tirthankers  at  Benares,  enclosing  a  native  banker's  note  of  hand 
for  three  hundred  rupees,  and  an  amazing  prayer  to  'Almighty  God.' 
The  lama  would  have  been  more  annoyed  than  the  priest  had  he 
known  how  the  bazar  letter-writer  had  translated  his  phrase  'to 
acquire  merit.' 

*  Powers  of  Darkness  below!'  Father  Victor  fumbled  with  the 
note.  'An'  now  he's  gone  off  with  another  of  his  peep-o'-day 
friends.  I  don't  know  whether  it  will  be  a  greater  relief  to  me  to 
get  him  back  or  to  have  him  lost.  He's  beyond  my  comprehen- 
sion. How  the  Divil  —  yes,  he's  the  man  I  mean  —  can  a  street- 
beggar  raise  money  to  educate  white  boys?' 

Three  miles  off,  on  Umballa  race-course,  Mahbub  All,  riding  a 
plunging  gray  Cabuli  stallion  with  Kim  in  front  of  him,  was 
saying: 

'But,  Little  Friend  of  all  the  World,  there  is  my  honour  and 
reputation  to  be  considered.  All  the  officer  Sahibs  in  all  the  regi- 
ments and  all  Umballa  know  Mahbub  AH.  Men  saw  me  pick 
thee  up  and  chastise  that  boy.  We  are  seen  now  from  far  across 
this  plain.  How  can  I  take  thee  away,  or  account  for  thy  dis- 
appearing if  I  set  thee  down  and  let  thee  run  off  into  the  crops? 
They  would  put  me  in  jail.  Be  patient.  Once  a  Sahib,  always  a 
Sahib.  When  thou  art  a  man  —  who  knows  —  thou  wilt  be  grate- 
ful to  Mahbub  AH.' 

'Take  me  away  or  let  me  go.  Give  me  a  little  money  and  I  will 
go  south  to  Benares  in  the  train  and  be  with  my  lama  again.  I  do 
not  want  to  be  a  Sahib,  and,  O  Mahbub  AH,  remember  I  did  de- 
liver that  message.' 

The  stallion  bounded  wildly.  Mahbub  AH  had  incautiously 
driven  home  the  sharp-edged  stirrup.  (He  was  not  the  new  sort 


I32  KIM 

of  fluent  horse-dealer  who  wears  English  boots  and  spurs.)  Kim 
drew  his  own  conclusions  from  that  betrayal. 

'That  was  a  small  matter.  It  lay  on  the  straight  road  to  Ben- 
ares. I  and  the  Sahib  have  by  this  time  forgotten  it.  I  send  so 
many  letters  and  messages  to  men  who  ask  questions  about  horses,  I 
cannot  well  remember  one  from  the  other.  Was  it  some  matter  of 
a  bay  mare  that  Peters  Sahib  wished  the  pedigree  of?' 

Kim  saw  the  trap  at  once.  If  he  had  said  'bay  mare'  Mahbub 
would  have  known  by  his  very  readiness  to  fall  in  with  the  amend- 
ment that  the  boy  suspected  something.  Kim  replied  therefore: 

'Bay  mare.  No.  /  do  not  forget  my  messages  thus.  It  was 
a  white  stallion.' 

'Ay,  so  it  was.  A  white  Arab  stallion.  But  thou  didst  write 
bay  mare  to  me.' 

'Who  cares  to  tell  truth  to  a  letter-writer?'  Kim  answered,  feel- 
ing Mahbub's  palm  on  his  heart. 

'Hi!  Mahbub,  you  old  villian,  pull  up!'  cried  a  voice,  and  an 
Englishman  raced  alongside  on  a  little  polo-pony.  'I've  been  chas- 
ing you  half  over  the  maidan.  That  Cabuli  of  yours  can  go.  For 
sale,  I  suppose?' 

'Aha,'  said  Mahbub,  smoothly  reeling  out  the  old,  old  lie  in  the 
vernacular,  'goes  in  a  cart:  carries  a  lady  and ' 

'Plays  polo  and  waits  at  table.  Yes.  We  know  all  that.  What 
the  deuce  have  you  got  there?' 

'A  boy,'  said  Mahbub  gravely.  'He  was  being  beaten  by  an- 
other boy.  His  father  was  once  a  white  soldier  in  the  big  war' 
(Mahbub  meant  the  Afghan  war  of  '79).  'The  boy  was  a  child 
in  Lahore  city.  He  played  with  my  horses  when  he  was  a  babe. 
Now  I  think  they  will  make  him  a  soldier.  He  has  been  newly 
caught  by  his  father's  regiment  that  went  up  to  the  war  last  week. 


KIM  133 

But  I  do  not  think  he  wants  to  be  a  soldier.  I  take  him  for  a  ride. 
Now  it  is  time  to  go  home.  Tell  me  where  thy  barracks  are  and  I 
will  set  thee  down.' 

'Let  me  go.     I  can  go  to  the  barracks  alone.' 

'And  if  thou  runnest  away  who  will  say  it  is  not  my  fault?' 

'He'll  run  back  to  his  dinner.  Where  has  he  to  run  to?'  the 
Englishman  asked. 

'He  was  born  in  the  land.  He  has  friends.  He  goes  where  he 
chooses.  He  is  a  chaluk  sawai  (a  sharp  chap).  It  needs  only  to 
change  his  clothing,  and  in  a  twinkling  he  would  be  a  low-caste 
Hindi  boy.' 

'The  deuce  he  would!'  The  Englishman,  of  a  sudden,  looked 
critically  at  the  boy  as  Mahbub  headed  towards  the  barracks. 
Kim  ground  his  teeth.  Mahbub  was  betraying  him,  mercilessly 
mocking  him  the  while,  as  faithless  Afghans  will;  for  he  went  on: 

'They  will  send  him  to  a  school  and  put  heavy  boots  on  his  feet 
and  swaddle  him  in  these  clothes.  Then  he  will  forget  all  he  knows. 
Now  which  of  the  barracks  yonder  is  thine?' 

Kim  pointed  —  he  could  not  speak  —  to  Father  Victor's  wing, 
all  staring  white  across  the  plain.  If  the  Englishman  had  not 
come  he  might  have  prevailed  upon  Mahbub  to  let  him  go.  Now 
his  chance  was  lost. 

'Perhaps  he  will  make  a  good  soldier,'  said  Mahbub  reflectively. 
'He  will  make  a  good  orderly  at  least.  I  sent  him  to  deliver  a  mes- 
sage once  —  a  message  to  this  town  —  from  Lahore.  A  message 
concerning  the  pedigree  of  a  white  stallion.' 

'Ah,'  said  the  Englishman,  lazily  rubbing  his  pony's  damp  with- 
ers with  his  whip-butt.  'Who  will  make  the  boy  a  soldier?' 

'He  says  even  the  regiment  that  found  him,  and  especially  the 
padre-sahib  of  that  regiment.' 


KIM 

'There  is  the  padre!'  Kim  pointed  to  the  bare-headed  Father 
Victor  sailing  down  upon  them  from  the  verandah. 

'Powers  o'  Darkness  below,  O'Hara!  How  many  more  mixed 
friends  do  you  keep  in  Asia  ? '  he  cried,  as  Kim  slid  down  and  stood 
helplessly  before  him. 

'Good  morning,  Padre,'  the  Colonel  said  cheerily.  'I  know  you 
by  reputation  well  enough.  Meant  to  have  come  over  and  called 
before  this.  I'm  Creighton.' 

'  Of  the  Ethnological  Survey  ? '  said  Father  Victor.  The  Colonel 
nodded.  'Faith,  I'm  glad  to  meet  ye  then;  an'  I  owe  you  some 
thanks  for  bringing  back  the  boy.' 

'No  thanks  to  me,  Padre.  Besides,  the  boy  wasn't  going  away. 
You  don't  know  old  Mahbub  AH'  —  the  horse-dealer  sat  impassive 
in  the  sunlight.  'You  will  when  you  have  been  in  the  station  a 
month.  He  sells  us  all  our  crocks.  He  seems  to  have  met  your 
boy  somewhere  up  country.  That  boy  is  rather  a  curiosity.  Can 
you  tell  me  anything  about  him?' 

'  Can  I  tell  you  ? '  puffed  Father  Victor.  '  You'll  be  the  one  man 
that  could  help  me  in  my  quandaries.  I'll  call  a  boy  to  hold  your 
horse  if  ye  can  give  me  your  attention  for  a  few  minutes.  Tell  you ! 
Powers  o'  Darkness!  I'm  bursting  to  tell  some  one  who  knows 
something  o'  the  native.' 

A  groom  came  round  the  corner.  Colonel  Creighton  raised 
his  voice,  speaking  in  Urdu.  'Very  good,  Mahbub  AH,  but 
what  is  the  use  of  telling  me  all  those  stories  about  the 
pony.  Not  one  pie  more  than  three  hundred  and  fifty  rupees 
will  I  give.' 

'The  Sahib  is  a  little  hot  and  angry  after  riding,'  the  horse-dealer 
returned,  with  the  leer  of  a  privileged  jester.  'Presently  he  will 
see  the  horse's  points  more  clearly.  We  will  say  four  hundred 


KIM  135 

rupees?  No?  Good.  I  will  wait  then  till  he  has  finished  his 
talk  with  the  padre.  I  will  wait  under  that  tree.' 

*  Confound  you!'  The  Colonel  laughed.  'That  comes  of  look- 
ing at  one  of  Mahbub's  horses.  He's  a  regular  old  leech,  Padre. 
Wait  then,  if  thou  hast  so  much  time  to  spare,  Mahbub.  Now  I'm 
at  your  service,  Padre.  Where  is  the  boy?  Oh,  he's  gone  off  to 
collogue  with  Mahbub.  Queer  sort  of  boy.  These  native-bred 
brats  always  prefer  to  jabber  with  Asiatics.  Might  I  ask  you  to 
send  my  mare  round  under  cover?  She's  a  trifle  warm.' 

He  dropped  into  a  long  chair  which  commanded  a  clear  view  of 
Kim  and  Mahbub  Ali  in  conference  beneath  the  tree.  The  groom, 
who  would  have  given  his  eyes  for  a  word  or  two  from  the  eminent 
horse-dealer,  took  the  mare  away.  The  padre  went  indoors  for 
cheroots. 

Creighton  heard  Kim  say  bitterly:  'Trust  a  Brahmin  before 
a  snake,  and  a  snake  before  a  harlot,  and  a  harlot  before  an  Afghan, 
Mahbub  AH.' 

'That  is  all  one,'  the  great  red  beard  wagged  solemnly.  'Chil- 
dren should  not  see  a  carpet  on  the  loom  till  the  pattern  is  made 
plain.  Believe  me,  Friend  of  all  the  World,  I  do  thee  great 
service.  One  thing  at  least  is  sure.  They  will  not  make  a  soldier 
of  thee.' 

'You  crafty  old  sinner,'  thought  Creighton.  'But  you're  not 
far  wrong.  That  boy  mustn't  be  wasted  if  he  is  as  advertised.' 

'Excuse  me  half  a  minute,'  cried  the  padre  from  within,  'but 
I'm  gettin'  the  documents  of  the  case.' 

'  If  through  me  the  favour  of  this  great  and  wise  Colonel  Sahib 
comes  to  thee  and,  after  a  while,  thou  art  raised  to  honour,  what 
thanks  wilt  thou  give  Mahbub  Ali  when  thou  art  a  man  ? 

'Nay,  nay;  I  begged  thee  to  let  me  take  the  road  again,  where  I 


136  KIM 

should  have  been  safe;  and  thou  hast  sold  me  back  to  the  English. 
What  price  will  they  give  thee  for  blood  money  ? ' 

'A  cheerful  sort  of  young  demon!'  The  Colonel  bit  his  cigar, 
and  turned  politely  to  Father  Victor. 

1  What  are  the  letters  that  the  fat  priest  is  waving  before  the 
Colonel?  Stand  behind  the  stallion  as  though  looking  at  my 
bridle !'  said  Mahbub  Ali. 

'A  letter  from  my  lama  which  he  wrote  from  Jagadhir  Road, 
saying  that  he  will  pay  three  hundred  rupees  by  the  year  for  my 
schooling.' 

'Oho!     Is  the  red  lama  of  that  sort?    At  which  school?' 

'God  knows.     I  think  it  Nucklao.' 

'Yes.  There  is  a  big  school  there  for  the  sons  of  Sahibs  —  and 
half  Sahibs.  I  have  seen  it  when  I  sell  horses  there.  So  the  lama 
also  loved  the  Friend  of  all  the  World  ? ' 

'Ay;  and  he  did  not  tell  lies,  or  return  me  to  captivity.' 

'Small  wonder  the  padre  does  not  know  how  to  unravel  the 
thread.  How  fast  he  talks  to  the  Colonel  Sahib.'  Mahbub  Ali 
chuckled.  '  By  Allah ! '  —  the  keen  eyes  swept  the  verandah  for  an 
instant  —  'thy  lama  has  sent  what  to  me  looks  like  a  note  of  hand. 
I  have  had  some  small  experience  in  hoondies.  The  Colonel  Sahib 
is  looking  at  it.' 

'What  good  is  all  this  to  me?'  said  Kim  wearily.  'Thou  wilt  go 
away,  and  they  will  return  me  to  those  empty  rooms  where  there 
is  no  good  place  to  sleep  and  where  the  boys  beat  me.' 

'I  do  not  think  that.  Have  patience,  child.  All  Pathans  are 
not  faithless  —  except  in  horseflesh.' 

Five  —  ten  —  fifteen  minutes  passed,  Father  Victor  talking 
energetically  or  asking  questions  which  the  Colonel  answered. 

'Now  I've  told  you  everything  that  I  know  about  the  boy  from 


*    .    .    ,     .    PATHANS  ARE  NOT  FAITHLESS  —  EXCEPT  IN  HORSE-FLESH 


KIM  137 

beginnin'  to  end;  and  it's  a  blessed  relief  to  me.  Did  ye  ever  hear 
the  like?' 

'At  any  rate,  the  old  man  has  sent  the  money.  Gobind  Sahai's 
notes  of  hand  are  good  from  here  to  China,'  said  the  Colonel.  'The 
more  one  knows  about  natives  the  less  can  one  say  what  they  will 
or  won't  do.' 

'That's  consolin' —  from  the  head  of  the  Ethnological  Survey. 
It  is  this  mixture  of  red  bulls  and  rivers  of  healing  (poor  heathen, 
God  help  him!)  an'  notes  of  hand  and  Masonic  certificates.  Are 
you  a  Mason,  by  any  chance?' 

'  By  Jove,  I  am,  now  I  come  to  think  of  it.  That's  an  additional 
reason,'  said  the  Colonel  absently. 

'I'm  glad  ye  see  a  reason  in  it.  But  as  I  said,  it's  the  mixture  o' 
things  that's  beyond  me.  An'  his  prophesyin'  to  the  Colonel  sitting 
on  my  bed  with  his  little  shimmy  torn  open  showing  his  white  skin; 
an'  the  prophecy  comin'  true.  They'll  cure  all  that  nonsense  at 
St.  Xavier's.' 

'Sprinkle  him  with  holy  water  then,'  the  Colonel  laughed. 

'On  my  word,  I  fancy  I  ought  to  sometimes.  But  I'm  hoping 
he'll  be  brought  up  as  a  good  Catholic.  All  that  troubles  me  is 
what'll  happen  if  the  old  beggar  man ' 

'Lama,  lama,  my  dear  sir;  and  some  of  them  are  gentlemen  in 
their  own  country.' 

'The  lama  then  fails  to  pay  next  year.  He's  a  fine  business  head 
to  plan  on  the  spur  of  the  moment,  but  he's  bound  to  die  some  day. 
An'  takin'  a  heathen's  money  to  give  a  child  a  Christian  educa- 
tion   ' 

'But  he  said  explicitly  what  he  wanted.  As  soon  as  he  knew  the 
boy  was  a  white  he  seems  to  have  made  his  arrangements  accord- 
ingly. I'd  give  a  month's  pay  to  hear  how  he  explained  it  all  at 


138  KIM 

the  Tirthankers  Temple  at  Benares.  Look  here,  Padre,  I  don't 
pretend  to  know  much  about  natives,  but  if  he  says  he'll  pay,  he'll 
pay  —  dead  or  alive.  That's  to  say,  he'll  pass  on  the  debt  to  some 
one  else.  My  advice  to  you  is,  send  the  boy  down  to  Lucknow. 
If  your  Anglican  chaplain  thinks  you've  stolen  a  march  on 
him ' 

'Bad  luck  to  Bennett!  He  was  sent  to  the  front  instead  o'  me. 
Doughty  certified  me  medically  unfit.  I'll  excommunicate  Doughty 
if  he  comes  home  alive.  Surely  Bennett  ought  to  be  content 
with ' 

'Glory,  leaving  you  the  religion.  Quite  so!  As  a  matter  of 
fact  I  don't  think  Bennett  will  mind.  Put  the  blame  on  me.  I 
—  er  —  strongly  recommend  sending  the  boy  to  St.  Xavier's.  He 
can  go  down  on  pass  as  a  soldier's  orphan,  so  the  railway  fare  will 
be  saved.  You  can  buy  him  an  outfit  from  the  regimental  sub- 
scription. The  lodge  will  be  saved  the  expense  of  his  education, 
and  that  will  put  the  lodge  in  a  good  temper.  It's  perfectly  easy. 
Look  here.  I've  got  to  go  down  to  Lucknow  next  week.  I'll 
look  after  the  boy  on  the  way.  Put  him  in  charge  of  my  servants 
and  so  on.' 

'You're  a  good  man.' 

'Not  in  the  least.  Don't  make  that  mistake.  The  lama  has 
sent  us  money  for  a  definite  end.  We  can't  very  well  return  it. 
We  shall  have  to  do  as  he  says.  Well,  that's  settled,  isn't  it? 
Shall  we  say  that  on  Tuesday  next  you'll  hand  him  over  to  me  on 
the  night  train  south  ?  That's  only  three  days.  He  can't  do  much 
harm  in  three  days.' 

'It's  a  weight  off  my  mind,  but  —  this  thing  here'  —  he  waved 
the  note  of  hand  —  'I  don't  know  Gobind  Sahai:  an'  his  bank, 
which  may  be  a  hole  in  a  wall  in  a  bazar.' 


KIM  139 

*  You've  never  been  a  subaltern  in  debt.  I'll  cash  it  if  you  like, 
and  send  you  the  vouchers  in  proper  order.' 

4 But  with  all  your  own  work  too!     It's  askin'!' 

1  It's  not  the  least  trouble  indeed.  You  see,  as  an  ethnologist, 
the  thing's  very  interesting  to  me.  I'd  like  to  make  a  note  of  it  in 
some  Government  work  that  I'm  doing.  The  transformation  of  a 
regimental  badge  like  your  Red  Bull  into  a  sort  of  fetish  that  the 
boy  follows  is  very  interesting.' 

'But  I  can't  thank  you  enough.' 

'There's  one  thing  you  can  do.  All  we  ethnological  men  are  as 
jealous  as  jackdaws  of  one  another's  discoveries.  They're  of  no 
interest  to  any  one  but  ourselves,  of  course,  but  you  know  what 
book-collectors  are  like.  Well,  don't  say  a  word,  directly  or  in- 
directly, about  the  Asiatic  side  of  the  boy's  character  —  his  ad- 
ventures and  his  prophecy,  and  so  on.  I'll  worm  them  out  of  the 
boy  later  on  and  —  you  see  ? ' 

'I  do.  Ye'll  make  a  wonderful  account  of  it.  Never  a  word  will 
I  say  to  any  one  till  I  see  it  in  print.' 

'Thank  you.  That  goes  straight  to  an  ethnologist's  heart. 
Well,  I  must  be  getting  back  to  my  breakfast.  Good  Heavens! 
Old  Mahbub  is  still  here.'  He  raised  his  voice,  and  the  horse- 
dealer  came  out  from  under  the  shadow  of  the  tree.  'Well,  what 
is  it,  Mahbub?' 

'As  regards  that  young  horse,'  said  Mahbub,  joining  his  hands 
as  one  making  a  petition,  'I  say  that  when  a  colt  is  born  to  be  a 
polo-pony,  closely  following  the  ball  without  teaching  —  when 
such  a  colt  knows  the  game  by  divination  —  then  I  say  it  is  a  great 
wrong  to  break  that  colt  to  a  heavy  cart,  Sahib !' 

'So  do  I  say  also,  Mahbub.  The  colt  will  be  entered  for  polo 
only.  These  fellows  think  of  nothing  in  the  world  but  horses, 


140  KIM 

Padre.  I'll  see  you  to-morrow,  Mahbub,  if  you've  anything  likely 
for  sale/ 

The  dealer  saluted,  horseman  fashion,  with  a  sweep  of  his  off 
hand.  'Be  patient  a  little,  Friend  of  all  the  World,'  he  whispered 
to  the  agonized  Kim.  'Thy  fortune  is  made.  In  a  little  while 
thou  goest  to  Lucknow,  and  —  here  is  something  to  pay  the  letter- 
writer.  I  shall  see  thee  again,  I  think,  many  times,'  and  he  can- 
tered off  down  the  road. 

'Listen  to  me,'  said  the  Colonel  from  the  verandah,  speaking  in 
the  vernacular.  'In  three  days  thou  wilt  go  with  me  to  Lucknow, 
seeing  and  hearing  new  things  all  the  while.  Therefore  sit  still 
for  three  days  and  do  not  run  away.  Thou  wilt  go  to  school  at 
Lucknow.' 

'Shall  I  meet  the  Holy  One  at  Lucknow?'  Kim  whimpered. 

'At  least  Lucknow  is  nearer  to  Benares  than  Umballa.  It  may 
be  thou  wilt  go  under  my  protection.  Mahbub  AH  knows  this, 
and  he  will  be  angry  if  thou  returnest  to  the  road.  Remember  — 
much  has  been  told  me  which  I  do  not  forget.' 

'I  will  wait  here,  then,'  said  Kim,  'but  the  boys  will  beat  me.' 

Then  the  bugles  blew  for  dinner. 


CHAPTER  VII 

Unto  whose  use  the  pregnant  suns  are  poised 

With  idiot  moons  and  stars  retracting  stars? 
Creep  thou  betweene  —  thy  coming's  all  unnoised. 

Heaven  hath  her  high  as  earth  her  baser  wars. 
Heir  to  these  tumults,  this  affright,  that  fraye 
(By  Adam's  fathers'  own  sin  bound  alway); 
Peer  up,  draw  out  thy  horoscope  and  say 

Which  planet  mends  thy  threadbare  fate  or  mars! 

SIR  JOHN  CHRISTIE. 

IN  the  afternoon  the  red-faced  schoolmaster  told  Kim  that  he 
had  been  'struck  off  the  strength,'  which  conveyed  no  meaning 
to  him  till  he  was  ordered  to  go  away  and  play.  Then  he  ran  to 
the  bazar,  and  found  the  young  letter-writer  to  whom  he  owed  a 
stamp. 

'Now  I  pay,'  said  Kim  royally,  'and  now  I  want  another  letter 
to  be  written.' 

'Mahbub  Ali  is  in  Umballa,'  said  the  writer  jauntily.  He  was, 
by  virtue  of  his  office,  a  bureau  of  general  misinformation. 

'This  is  not  to  Mahbub,  but  to  a  priest.  Take  thy  pen  and 
write  quickly.  To  Teshoo  Lama,  the  holy  one  from  Bhotiyal  seek- 
ing for  a  River,  who  is  now  in  the  Temple  of  the  Tirthankers  at  Benares. 
Take  more  ink.  In  three  days  I  am  to  go  down  to  Nucklao  to  the 
school  at  Nucklao.  The  name  of  the  school  is  Xavier.  I  do  not 
know  where  that  school  is,  but  it  is  at  Nucklao.9 

'But  I  know  Nucklao,'  the  writer  interrupted.     'I  know  the 

school.' 

141 


i42  KIM 

'Tell  him  where  it  is,  and  I  give  half  an  anna.' 

The  reed  pen  scratched  busily.  'He  cannot  mistake.'  The 
man  lifted  his  head.  'Who  watches  us  across  the  street?' 

Kim  looked  up  hurriedly  and  saw  Colonel  Creighton  in  tennis 
flannels. 

'Oh,  that  is  some  Sahib  who  knows  the  fat  priest  in  the  barracks. 
He  is  beckoning  me.' 

'What  dost  thou?'  said  the  Colonel,  when  Kim  trotted  up. 

'I  —  I  am  not  running  away.  I  send  a  letter  to  my  holy  one 
at  Benares.' 

'  I  had  not  thought  of  that.  Hast  thou  said  that  I  take  thee  to 
Lucknow?' 

'Nay,  I  have  not.     Read  the  letter,  if  there  be  a  doubt.' 

'Then  why  hast  thou  left  out  my  name  in  writing  to  that  holy 
one?'  The  Colonel  smiled  a  queer  smile.  Kim  took  his  courage 
in  both  hands. 

'It  was  said  once  to  me  that  it  is  inexpedient  to  write  the  names 
of  strangers  concerned  in  any  matter,  because  by  the  naming  of 
names  many  good  plans  are  brought  to  confusion.' 

'Thou  hast  been  well  taught,'  the  Colonel  replied,  and  Kim 
flushed.  'I  have  left  my  cheroot-case  in  the  Padre's  verandah. 
Bring  it  to  my  house  this  even.' 

'Where  is  thy  house?'  said  Kim.  His  quick  wit  told  him  that 
he  was  being  tested  in  some  fashion  or  another,  and  he  stood  on 
guard. 

'Ask  any  one  in  the  big  bazar.'    The  Colonel  walked  on. 

'He  has  forgotten  his  cheroot-case,'  said  Kim,  returning  to  the 
letter-writer.  'I  must  bring  it  to  him  this  evening.  That  is  all 
my  letter  except,  thrice  over,  Come  to  me!  Come  to  me!  Come  to 
me!  Now  I  will  pay  for  a  stamp  and  put  it  in  the  post.'  He  rose 


KIM  143 

to  go,  and  as  an  after-thought  said:  'Who  is  that  angry-faced 
Sahib  who  lost  the  cheroot-case?' 

'Oh,  he  is  only  Creighton  Sahib  —  a  very  foolish  Sahib,  who  is 
a  Colonel  Sahib  without  a  regiment.' 

'What  is  his  business?' 

'God  knows.  He  is  always  buying  horses  which  he  cannot  ride, 
and  asking  questions  about  the  works  of  God  —  such  as  plants 
and  stones  and  the  customs  of  people.  The  dealers  say  that  he 
is  the  father  of  fools,  because  he  is  so  easily  cheated  about  a  horse. 
Mahbub  Ali  says  he  is  madder  than  all  other  Sahibs.' 

'Oh!'  said  Kim,  and  departed.  His  training  had  given  him 
some  small  knowledge  of  character,  and  he  argued  promptly  that 
if  Colonel  Creighton  was  a  fool,  he  was  so  for  a  purpose.  Fools 
are  not  given  information  that  leads  to  calling  out  eight  thousand 
men  besides  guns.  The  Commander-in-Chief  of  all  India  does 
not  talk,  as  Kim  had  heard  him  talk,  to  fools.  Nor,  and  this  to 
Kim  was  conclusive,  would  Mahbub  Ali's  tone  have  changed,  as 
it  did  every  time  he  mentioned  the  Colonel's  name,  if  the  Colonel 
had  been  a  fool.  Consequently  —  and  this  set  Kim  to  skipping 
—  there  was  a  mystery  somewhere,  and  Mahbub  Ali  evidently 
spied  for  the  Colonel  much  as  Kim  had  spied  for  Mahbub.  And, 
like  the  horse-dealer,  the  Colonel  evidently  respected  people  who 
did  not  show  themselves  to  be  too  clever. 

He  rejoiced  that  he  had  not  betrayed  his  knowledge  of  the 
Colonel's  house;  and  when,  on  his  return  to  barracks,  he  discovered 
that  no  cheroot-case  had  been  left  behind,  he  beamed  with  delight. 
Here  was  a  man  after  his  own  heart  —  a  tortuous  and  indirect 
person  playing  a  hidden  game.  Well,  if  he  could  be  a  fool,  so 
could  Kim. 

He  showed  nothing  of  what  was  in  his  mind  when  Father  Victor, 


144  KIM 

for  three  long  mornings,  discoursed  to  him  of  an  entirely  new  set 
of  gods  and  godlings  —  notably  of  a  goddess  called  Mary,  who, 
he  gathered,  was  one  with  Bibi  Miriam  of  Mahbub  Ali's  theology. 
He  betrayed  no  emotion  when,  after  the  lecture,  Father  Victor 
dragged  him  from  shop  to  shop  buying  articles  of  outfit,  nor  when 
envious  drummer-boys  kicked  him  because  he  was  going  to  a 
superior  school  did  he  complain.  He  awaited  the  play  of  circum- 
stances with  deep  relish.  Father  Victor,  good  man,  took  him  to 
the  station,  put  him  into  an  empty  second-class  next  to  Colonel 
Creighton's  first,  and  bade  him  farewell  with  genuine  feeling. 

1  They'll  make  a  man  o'  you,  O'Hara,  at  St.  Xavier's  —  a  white 
man,  an',  I  hope,  a  good  man.  They  know  all  about  your  comin', 
an'  the  Colonel  will  see  that  ye're  not  lost  or  mislaid  anywhere  on 
the  road.  I've  given  you  a  notion  of  religious  matters,  —  at  least 
I  hope  so,  —  and  you'll  remember,  when  they  ask  you  your  re- 
ligion, that  you're  a  Cath'lic.  Better  say  Roman  Cath'lic,  tho' 
I'm  not  fond  of  the  word.' 

Kim  lit  a  rank  cigarette  —  he  had  been  careful  to  buy  a  stock 
in  the  bazar  —  and  lay  down  to  think.  This  solitary  passage  was 
very  different  from  that  joyful  down-journey  in  the  third-class 
with  the  lama.  *  Sahibs  get  little  pleasure  of  travel,'  he  reflected. 
'Hoi  mail  I  go  from  one  place  to  another  as  I  might  be  a  kick- 
ball.  It  is  my  Kismet.  No  man  can  escape  his  Kismet.  But  I 
am  to  pray  to  Bibi  Miriam,  and  I  am  a  Sahib '  —  he  looked  at  his 
boots  ruefully.  'No;  I  am  Kim.  This  is  the  great  world,  and  I 
am  only  Kim.  Who  is  Kim?'  He  considered  his  own  identity, 
a  thing  he  had  never  done  before,  till  his  head  swam.  He  was  one 
insignificant  person  in  all  this  roaring  whirl  of  India,  going  south- 
ward to  he  knew  not  what  fate.  Till  he  saw  his  road  more  clearly 
he  would  keep  all  his  lights  under  a  bushel;  though  he  was  greatly 


KIM  145 

tempted  at  stations,  when  the  sweetmeat-seller  came  along  with 
his  wares,  to  chaff  him  in  the  vernacular,  and  to  be  rude  to  the 
ticket-collector. 

Presently  the  Colonel  sent  for  him,  and  talked  for  a  long  time. 
So  far  as  Kim  could  gather,  he  was  to  be  diligent  and  enter  the 
Survey  of  India  as  a  chainman.  If  he  were  very  good,  and  passed 
the  proper  examinations,  he  would  be  earning  thirty  rupees  a 
month  at  seventeen  years  old,  and  Colonel  Creighton  would  see 
that  he  found  suitable  employment. 

Kim  understood  perhaps  one  word  in  three  of  this  talk,  to  which 
he  listened  politely,  an  eye  on  the  dusty  landscape  of  the  North- 
west. The  Colonel  spoke  always  in  Urdu.  No  man  could  be  a 
fool  who  knew  the  language  so  intimately,  who  moved  so  gently 
and  silently,  and  whose  eyes  were  so  different  from  the  dull  fat 
eyes  of  other  Sahibs. 

'Yes,  and  thou  must  learn  how  to  make  pictures  of  roads  and 
mountains  and  rivers  —  to  carry  these  pictures  in  thy  eye  till  a 
suitable  time  comes  to  set  them  upon  paper.  Perhaps  some  day, 
when  thou  art  a  chainman,  I  may  say  to  thee  when  we  are  working 
together:  "Go  across  those  hills  and  see  what  lies  beyond." 
Then  one  will  say:  "There  are  bad  people  living  in  those  hills 
who  will  slay  the  chainman  if  he  be  seen  to  look  like  a  Sahib." 
What  wouldst  thou  do  then?' 

Kim  thought.     Would  it  be  safe  to  return  the  Colonel's  lead? 

*I  would  tell  thee  what  that  other  man  had  said.' 

'But  if  I  answered:  "I  will  give  thee  a  hundred  rupees  for 
knowledge  of  what  is  behind  those  hills  —  for  a  picture  of  a 
river  and  a  little  news  of  "what  the  people  say  in  the  villages 
there"?' 

'How  can  I  tell?    I  am  only  a  boy.     Wait  till  I  am  a  man.' 


146  KIM 

Then,  seeing  the  Colonel's  brow  clouded,  he  went  on:  'But  I 
think  I  should  in  a  few  days  earn  the  hundred  rupees.' 

1  By  what  road  ? ' 

Kim  shook  his  head  resolutely.  'If  I  said  how  I  would  earn 
them,  another  man  might  hear  and  forestall  me.  It  is  no  good  to 
sell  knowledge  for  nothing/ 

'Tell  now.'  The  Colonel  held  up  a  rupee.  Kim's  hand  half 
reached  toward  it,  and  dropped. 

'Nay,  Sahib;  nay.  I  know  the  price  that  will  be  paid  for  the 
answer,  but  I  do  not  know  why  the  question  is  asked.' 

'Take  it  for  a  gift,  then,'  said  Creighton,  tossing  it  over.  'I 
think  that  there  is  a  good  spirit  in  thee.  Do  no(t  let  it  be  blunted 
at  St.  Xavier's.  There  are  many  boys  there  who  despise  the 
black  men.' 

'Their  mothers  were  bazar-women,'  said  Kim.  He  knew  well 
there  is  no  hatred  like  that  of  the  half-caste  for  his  brother-in-law. 

'True;  but  thou  art  a  Sahib  and  the  son  of  a  Sahib.  Therefore, 
do  not  at  any  time  be  led  to  contemn  the  black  men.  I  have 
known  boys  newly  entered  into  the  service  of  the  Government 
who  feigned  not  to  understand  the  talk  or  the  customs  of  black 
men.  Their  pay  was  cut  for  ignorance.  There  is  no  sin  so  great 
as  ignorance.  Remember  this.' 

Several  times  in  the  course  of  the  long  twenty-four  hours'  run 
south  did  the  Colonel  send  for  Kim,  always  developing  this  latter 
text. 

'We  be  all  on  one  lead-rope,  then,'  said  Kim  to  himself,  'the 
Colonel,  Mahbub  Ali,  and  I  —  when  I  become  a  chainman.  He 
will  use  me  as  Mahbub  Ali  employed  me,  I  think.  That  is  good, 
if  it  allows  me  to  return  to  the  road  again.  This  clothing  grows 
no  easier  by  wear.' 


KIM  147 

When  they  came  to  the  crowded  Lucknow  station  there  was  no 
sign  of  the  lama.  Kim  swallowed  his  disappointment,  while  the 
Colonel  bundled  him  into  a  ticca-gharri  with  his  small  belongings 
and  despatched  him  alone  to  St.  Xavier's. 

'I  do  not  say  farewell,  because  we  shall  meet  again,'  he  cried. 
'Again,  and  many  times,  if  thou  art  one  of  good  spirit.  But  thou 
art  not  yet  tried.' 

'Not  when  I  brought  thee'  —  Kim  actually  dared  to  use  the 
turn  of  equals  —  'the  white  stallion's  pedigree  that  night?' 

'Much  is  gained  by  forgetting,  little  brother,'  said  the  Colonel, 
with  a  look  that  pierced  through  Kim's  shoulder-blades  as  he 
scuttled  into  the  carriage. 

It  took  him  nearly  five  minutes  to  recover.  Then  he  sniffed 
the  new  air  appreciatively.  'A  rich  city,'  he  said.  'Richer  than 
Lahore.  How  good  the  bazars  must  be.  Coachman,  drive  me 
a  little  through  the  bazars  here.' 

'My  order  is  to  take  thee  to  the  school.'  The  driver  used  the 
'thou,'  which  is  rudeness  when  applied  to  a  white  man.  In  the 
clearest  and  most  fluent  vernacular  Kim  pointed  out  his  error, 
climbed  on  to  the  box-seat,  and,  a  perfect  understanding  being 
established,  drove  for  a  couple  of  hours  up  and  down,  estimating, 
comparing,  and  enjoying.  There  is  no  city  —  except  Bombay, 
the  queen  of  all  —  more  beautiful  in  her  garish  style  than  Luck- 
now,  whether  you  see  her  from  the  bridge  over  the  river,  or  the 
top  of  the  Imambara  looking  down  on  the  gilt  umbrellas  of  the 
Chutter  Munzil,  and  the  trees  in  which  the  town  is  bedded.  Kings 
have  adorned  her  with  fantastic  buildings,  endowed  her  with 
charities,  crammed  her  with  pensioners,  and  drenched  her  with 
blood.  She  is  the  centre  of  all  idleness,  intrigue,  and  luxury,  and 
shares  with  Delhi  the  claim  to  talk  the  only  pure  Urdu. 


I48  KIM 

'A  fair  city  —  a  beautiful  city.'  The  driver,  as  a  Lucknow 
man,  was  pleased  with  the  compliment,  and  told  Kim  many 
astounding  things  where  an  English  guide  would  have  talked  of 
the  Mutiny. 

'Now  we  will  go  to  the  school,'  said  Kim  at  last.  The  great  old 
school  of  St.  Xavier's  in  Partibus,  block  on  block  of  low  white 
buildings,  stands  in  vast  grounds  over  against  the  Gumti  river, 
at  some  distance  from  the  city. 

'What  like  of  folk  are  they  within?'  said  Kim. 

( 

'Young  Sahibs  —  all  devils;  but  to  speak  truth,  and  I  drive 
many  of  them  to  and  fro  from  the  railway  station,  I  have  never 
seen  one  that  had  in  him  the  making  of  a  more  perfect  devil  than 
thou  —  this  young  Sahib  whom  I  am  now  driving.' 

Naturally,  for  he  had  never  been  trained  to  consider  them  in  any 
way  improper,  Kim  had  passed  the  time  of  day  with  one  or  two 
frivolous  ladies  at  upper  windows  in  a  certain  street,  and  naturally, 
in  the  exchange  of  compliments,  had  acquitted  himself  well.  He 
was  about  to  acknowledge  the  driver's  last  insolence,  when  his 
eye  —  it  was  growing  dusk  —  was  caught  by  a  figure  sitting  by 
one  of  the  white  plaster  gate-pillars  in  the  long  sweep  of  wall. 

'Stop!'  he  cried.  'Stay  here.  I  do  not  go  to  the  school  at 
once.' 

'But  what  is  to  pay  me  for  this  coming  and  recoming?'  said  the 
driver  petulantly.  'Is  the  boy  mad?  Last  time  it  was  a  dancing- 
girl.  This  time  it  is  a  priest.' 

Kim  was  in  the  road,  if  the  driver  could  trust  his  eyes,  patting 
the  dusty  feet  beneath  the  dirty  yellow  robe. 

'I  have  waited  here  a  day  and  a  half,'  the  lama's  level  voice 
began.  'Nay,  I  had  a  disciple  with  me.  He  that  was  my  friend 
at  the  Temple  of  the  Tirthankers  gave  me  a  chela  for  this  journey. 


K  I  M  149 

I  came  from  Benares  in  the  train,  when  thy  letter  was  given  me. 
Yes,  I  am  well  fed.  I  need  nothing.' 

'But  why  didst  thou  not  stay  with  the  Kulu  woman,  O  Holy 
One?  In  what  way  didst  thou  get  to  Benares?  My  heart  has 
been  heavy  since  we  parted.' 

'The  woman  wearied  me  by  constant  flux  of  talk  and  requiring 
charms  for  children.  I  separated  myself  from  that  company, 
permitting  her  to  acquire  merit  by  gifts.  She  is  at  least  a  woman  of 
open  hands,  and  I  made  a  promise  to  return  to  her  house  if  need 
arose.  Then,  perceiving  myself  alone  in  this  great  and  terrible 
world,  I  bethought  me  of  the  te-rain  to  Benares,  where  I  knew  one 
abode  in  the  Tirthankers  Temple  who  was  a  Seeker,  even  as  I.' 

'Ah!    Thy  River,'  said  Kim.     'I  had  forgotten  the  River.' 

'So  soon,  my  chela?  I  have  never  forgotten  it;  but  when  I  had 
left  thee  it  seemed  better  that  I  should  go  to  the  temple  and  take 
counsel,  for,  look  you,  India  is  very  large,  and  it  may  be  that  wise 
men  before  us,  some  two  or  three,  have  left  a  record  of  the  place  of 
our  River.  There  is  debate  in  the  Temple  of  the  Tirthankers  on 
this  matter;  some  saying  one  thing,  and  some  another.  They 
are  courteous  folk.' 

'So  be  it;  but  what  dost  thou  do  now?' 

'I  acquire  merit  in  that  I  help  thee,  my  chela,  to  wisdom.  The 
priest  of  that  body  of  men  who  serve  the  Red  Bull  wrote  me  that 
all  should  be  as  I  desired  for  thee.  I  sent  the  money  to  suffice  for 
one  year,  and  then  I  came,  as  thou  seest  me,  to  watch  for  thee  going 
up  into  the  Gates  of  Learning.  A  day  and  a  half  have  I  waited  — 
not  because  I  was  led  by  any  affection  towards  thee  —  that  is  no 
part  of  the  Way  —  but,  as  they  said  at  the  Tirthankers  Temple, 
because,  money  having  been  paid  for  learning,  it  was  right  that 
I  should  oversee  the  end  of  the  matter.  They  resolved  my  doubts 


ISO  K  I  M 

most  clearly.  I  had  a  fear  that,  perhaps,  I  came  because  I  wished 
to  see  thee  —  misguided  by  the  red  mist  of  affection.  It  is  not  so. 
.  .  .  Moreover,  I  am  troubled  by  a  dream.' 

'But  surely,  Holy  One,  thou  hast  not  forgotten  the  road  and 
all  that  befell  on  it.  Surely  it  was  a  little  to  see  me  that  thou  didst 
come  ? ' 

'The  horses  are  cold,  and  it  is  past  their  feeding-time,'  whined 
the  driver. 

'Go  to  Jehannum  and  abide  there  with  thy  reputationless  aunt,' 
Kim  snarled  over  his  shoulder.  'I  am  all  alone  in  this  land;  I 
know  not  where  I  go  nor  what  shall  befall  me.  My  heart  was  in 
that  letter  I  sent  thee.  Except  for  Mahbub  AH,  and  he  is  a  Pathan, 
I  have  no  friend  save  thee,  Holy  One.  Do  not  altogether  go  away.' 

'I  have  considered  that  also,'  the  lama  replied,  in  a  shaking 
voice.  'It  is  manifest  that  from  time  to  time  I  shall  acquire 
merit  -  -  if  before  that  I  have  not  found  my  River  —  by  assuring 
myself  that  thy  feet  are  set  on  the  Way.  What  they  will  teach 
thee  I  do  not  know,  but  the  priest  wrote  me  that  no  son  of  a  Sahib 
in  all  India  will  be  better  taught  than  thou.  So  from  time  to 
time,  therefore,  I  will  come  again.  May  be  thou  wilt  be  such  a 
Sahib  as  he  who  gave  me  these  spectacles'  —  the  lama  wiped  them 
elaborately  -  'in  the  Wonder  House  at  Lahore.  That  is  my  hope, 
for  he  was  a  Fountain  of  Wisdom  —  wiser  than  many  abbots. 
.  .  .  Again,  may  be  thou  wilt  forget  me  and  our  meetings.' 

'If  I  eat  thy  bread,'  cried  Kim  passionately,  'how  shall  I  ever 
forget  thee?' 

'No  —  no.'  He  put  the  boy  aside.  'I  must  go  back  to  Benares. 
From  time  to  time,  now  that  I  know  the  customs  of  letter-writers, 
in  this  land,  I  will  send  thee  a  letter,  and  from  time  to  time  I  will 
come  and  see  thee.' 


KIM  151 

'But  whither  shall  I  send  my  letters?'  wailed  Kim,  clutching  at 
the  robe,  all  forgetful  that  he  was  a  Sahib. 

'To  the  Temple  of  the  Tirthankers  at  Benares.  That  is  the 
place  I  have  chosen  till  I  find  my  River.  Do  not  weep ;  for,  look 
you,  all  desire  is  illusion  and  a  new  binding  upon  the  Wheel.  Go 
up  to  the  Gates  of  Learning.  Let  me  see  thee  go.  .  .  .  Dost 
thou  love  me?  Then  go,  or  my  heart  cracks.  ...  I  will 
come  again.  Surely  I  will  come  again.' 

The  lama  watched  the  ticca-gharri  rumble  into  the  compound, 
and  strode  off,  snuffing  between  each  long  stride. 

'The  Gates  of  Learning'  shut  with  a  clang. 


The  country  born  and  bred  boy  has  his  own  manners  and  customs, 
which  do  not  resemble  those  of  any  other  land;  and  his  teachers 
approach  him  by  roads  which  an  English  master  would  not  under- 
stand. Therefore,  you  would  scarcely  be  interested  in  Kim's 
experiences  as  a  St.  Xavier's  boy  among  two  or  three  hundred 
precocious  youths,  most  of  whom  had  never  seen  the  sea.  He 
suffered  the  usual  penalties  for  breaking  out  of  bounds  when  there 
was  cholera  in  the  city.  This  was  before  he  had  learned  to  write 
fair  English,  and  so  was  obliged  to  find  a  bazar  letter-writer.  He 
was,  of  course,  indicted  for  smoking  and  for  the  use  of  abuse  more 
full-flavoured  than  even  St.  Xavier's  had  ever  heard.  He  learned 
to  wash  himself  with  the  Levitical  scrupulosity  of  the  native-born, 
who  in  his  heart  considers  the  Englishman  rather  dirty.  He  played 
the  usual  tricks  on  the  patient  coolies  who  pulled  the  punkahs  in 
the  sleeping-rooms  where  the  boys  thrashed  through  the  hot 
nights  telling  tales  till  the  dawn;  and  quietly  he  measured  himself 
against  his  mates. 


152  KIM 

They  were  sons  of  subordinate  officials  in  the  Railway,  Tele- 
graph, and  Canal  services;  of  warrant-officers,  sometimes  retired 
and  sometimes  acting  as  commanders-in-chief  of  a  feudatory 
Rajah's  army;  of  captains  of  the  Indian  Marine,  Government 
pensioners,  planters,  presidency  shopkeepers,  and  missionaries;  a 
few  were  cadets  of  the  old  Eurasian  houses  that  have  taken  strong 
root  in  Dhurrumtollah  —  Pereiras,  De  Souzas,  and  De  Silvas. 
Their  parents  could  well  have  educated  them  in  England,  but  they 
loved  the  school  that  had  served  their  own  youth,  and  generation 
followed  sallow-hued  generation  at  St.  Xavier's.  Their  homes 
ranged  from  Howrah  of  the  railway  people  to  abandoned  can- 
tonments like  Monghyr  and  Chunar;lost  tea-gardens  Shillong  way; 
villages  where  their  fathers  were  large  landholders  in  Oudh  or  the 
Deccan;  mission  stations  a  week  from  the  nearest  railway  line; 
seaports  a  thousand  miles  south,  facing  the  shallow  Indian  surf; 
and  cinchona  plantations  south  of  all.  The  mere  story  of  their 
adventures,  which  to  them  were  no  adventures,  on  their  road  to 
and  from  school  would  have  crisped  an  English  boy's  hair.  They 
were  used  to  jogging  off  alone  through  a  hundred  miles  of  jungle, 
where  there  was  always  the  delightful  chance  of  being  delayed 
by  tigers;  but  they  would  no  more  have  bathed  in  the  English 
Channel  in  an  English  August,  than  their  brothers  across  the 
world  would  have  lain  still  while  a  leopard  snuffed  at  their  palan- 
quin. There  were  boys  of  fifteen  who  had  spent  a  day  and  a  half 
on  an  islet  in  the  middle  of  a  flooded  river,  taking  charge,  as  by 
right,  of  a  camp  of  frantic  pilgrims  returning  from  a  shrine;  there 
were  seniors  who  had  requisitioned  a  chance-met  Rajah's  elephant, 
in  the  name  of  St.  Francis  Xavier,  when  the  rains  once  blotted 
out  the  cart  track  that  led  to  their  father's  estate,  and  had  all 
but  lost  the  huge  beast  in  a  quicksand.  There  was  a  boy  who,  he 


K  I  M  153 

said,  and  none  doubted,  had  helped  his  father  to  beat  off  with 
rifles  from  the  verandah  a  rush  of  Akas  in  the  days  when  those 
herd-hunters  were  bold  against  outlying  plantations. 

And  every  tale  was  told  in  the  even,  passionless  voice  of  the 
native-born,  mixed  with  quaint  reflections,  borrowed  unconsciously 
from  native  foster-mothers,  and  turns  of  speech  that  showed  they 
had  been  that  instant  translated  from  the  vernacular.  Kim 
watched,  listened,  and  approved.  This  was  not  insipid,  single- 
word  talk  of  drummer-boys.  It  dealt  with  a  life  he  knew  and 
understood.  The  atmosphere  suited  him,  and  he  throve  by  inches. 
They  put  him  into  a  white  drill  suit  as  the  weather  grew  warmer, 
and  he  rejoiced  in  the  new-found  bodily  comforts  as  he  rejoiced 
to  use  his  sharpened  mind  over  the  tasks  they  set  him.  His  quick- 
ness would  have  amazed  an  English  master;  but  at  St.  Xavier's 
they  know  the  first  rush  of  minds  developed  by  sun  and  surround- 
ings, as  they  know  the  half-collapse  that  comes  at  twenty-two  or 
twenty-three. 

None  the  less  he  remembered  to  hold  himself  in  hand.  When 
the  tales  were  told  of  hot  nights,  Kim  did  not  sweep  the  board 
with  his  reminiscences;  for  St.  Xavier's  looks  down  on  boys  who 
'go  native  altogether.'  One  must  never  forget  that  one  is  a  Sahib, 
and  that  some  day,  when  examinations  are  passed,  one  will  com- 
mand natives.  Kim  made  a  note  of  this.  He  began  to  understand 
what  examinations  led  to. 

Then  came  the  holidays  from  August  to  October  —  the  long 
holidays  imposed  by  the  heat  and  the  rains.  Kim  was  informed 
that  he  would  go  north  to  some  station  in  the  hills  behind  Umballa, 
where  Father  Victor  would  arrange  for  him. 

*A  barrack  school?'  said  Kim,  who  had  asked  questions. 

'Yes,  I  suppose  so,'  said  the  master.     clt  will  not  do  you  any 


I54  KIM 

harm  to  keep  you  out  of  mischief.  You  can  go  up  with  young 
De  Castro  as  far  as  Delhi.' 

Kim  considered  it  in  every  possible  light.  He  had  been  diligent, 
even  as  the  Colonel  advised.  A  boy's  holiday  was  his  own  property, 
—  of  so  much  the  talk  of  his  companions  had  advised  him,  —  and 
a  barrack  school  would  be  Jehannum  after  St.  Xavier's.  More- 
over —  this  was  magic  worth  anything  else  —  he  could  write. 
In  three  months  he  had  discovered  how  men  can  speak  to  each 
other  at  a  distance  at  the  cost  of  half  an  anna  and  a  little  knowledge. 
No  word  had  come  from  the  lama,  but  there  remained  Mahbub 
Ali  —  Mahbub  AH  and  the  road.  Kim  yearned  for  the  feel  of 
soft  mud  squishing  up  between  the  toes,  as  his  mouth  watered 
for  mutton  stewed  with  butter  and  cabbages,  for  rice  speckled 
with  strong-scented  cardamoms,  for  the  saffron-tinted  rice,  garlic 
and  onions,  and  the  forbidden  greasy  sweetmeats  of  the  bazars. 
They  would  give  him  raw  beef  on  a  platter  at  the  barrack  school, 
and  he  must  smoke  by  stealth.  But  again,  he  was  a  Sahib  and 
was  at  St.  Xavier's,  and  that  pig  Mahbub  Ali.  .  .  .  No,  he 
would  not  test  Mahbub's  hospitality  —  and  yet.  ...  He 
thought  it  out  alone  in  the  dormitory,  and  came  to  the  conclusion 
he  had  been  unjust  to  Mahbub. 

The  school  was  empty;  the  masters,  all  save  two,  had  gone  away. 
Colonel  Creighton's  railway  pass  was  in  his  hand,  and  Kim  puffed 
himself  that  he  had  not  spent  Colonel  Creighton's  or  Mahbub's 
money  in  riotous  living.  He  was  still  lord  of  two  rupees  seven 
annas.  His  new  bullock-trunk,  marked  'K.  O'H.,'  and  bedding- 
roll  lay  in  the  empty  sleeping-room.  'Sahibs  are  always  tied  to 
their  baggage,'  said  Kim,  nodding  at  them.  'You  will  stay  here.' 
He  went  out  into  the  warm  rain,  smiling  tenderly,  and  sought  a 
certain  house  whose  outside  he  had  noted  down  some  time  before. 


KIM  155 

'Arre.  Dost  thou  know  what  manner  of  women  we  be  in  this 
quarter?  O  shame!' 

1  Was  I  born  yesterday?'  Kim  squatted  native  fashion  on  the 
cushions  of  that  upper  room.  'A  little  dye-stuff  and  three  yards 
of  cloth  to  help  out  a  jest.  Is  it  much  to  ask?' 

'Who  is  she?    Thou  art  full  young,  as  Sahibs  go,  for  this  devilry.' 

'Oh,  she?  She  is  the  daughter  of  a  certain  schoolmaster  of  a 
regiment  in  the  cantonments.  He  has  beaten  me  twice  because 
I  went  over  their  wall  in  these  clothes.  Now  I  would  go  as  a 
gardener's  boy.  Old  men  are  very  jealous.' 

'That  is  true.     Hold  thy  face  still  while  I  dab  on  the  juice.' 

'Not  too  black,  Haikun.  I  would  not  appear  to  her  as  a  hubshi 
(nigger).' 

'Oh,  love  makes  naught  of  these  things.     And  how  old  is  she?' 

'Twelve  years,  I  think,'  said  the  shameless  Kim.  'Spread  it 
also  on  the  breast.  It  may  be  her  father  will  tear  my  clothes  off 
me  and  if  I  am  piebald '  he  laughed. 

The  girl  worked  busily,  dabbing  a  twist  of  cloth  into  a  little 
saucer  of  brown  dye  that  holds  longer  than  any  walnut  juice. 

'Now  send  out  and  get  me  a  loin-cloth,  and  a  cloth  for  the  turban. 
Woe  is  me,  my  head  is  all  unshaved.  And  he  will  surely  knock 
off  my  turban.' 

'I  am  not  a  barber,  but  I  will  make  shift.  Thou  wast  born  to  be 
a  breaker  of  hearts!  All  this  disguise  for  one  evening?  Remem- 
ber, the  stuff  does  not  wash  away.'  She  shook  with  laughter  till 
her  bracelets  and  anklets  jingled.  '  But  who  is  to  pay  me  for  this  ? ' 

'Trust  in  the  gods,  my  sister,'  said  Kim  gravely,  screwing  his 
face  round  as  the  stain  dried.  'Some  days  a  feast,  and  some  days 
a  famine.  Besides,  hast  thou  ever  helped  to  paint  a  Sahib  thus 
before?' 


156  KIM 

'Never  indeed.     But  a  jest  is  not  money.' 

'It  is  worth  much  more.' 

1  Child,  thou  art  beyond  all  dispute  the  most  shameless  son  of 
Shaitan  that  I  have  ever  known  to  take  up  a  poor  girl's  time  with' 
this  play,  and  then  to  say:  "Is  not  the  jest  enough?'1  Thou 
wilt  go  very  far  in  this  world.'  She  gave  the  dancing-girls'  saluta- 
tion in  mockery. 

'All  one.  Make  haste  and  rough-cut  my  head.'  Kim  shifted 
from  foot  to  foot,  his  eyes  ablaze  with  mirth  as  he  thought  of  the 
fat  days  before  him.  He  gave  the  girl  four  annas,  and  went  down  ' 
the  stairs  in  the  likeness  of  a  low-caste  Hindi  boy  —  perfect  in 
every  detail.  A  cookshop  was  his  next  point  of  call,  where  he 
feasted  with  more  delight  than  ever  did  Haroun  al  Raschid. 

On  Lucknow  station  platform  he  watched  young  De  Castro, 
all  covered  with  prickly  heat,  get  into  a  second-class  compartment. 
Kim  patronized  a  third,  and  was  the  life  and  soul  of  it.  He  ex- 
plained to  the  company  that  he  was  assistant  to  a  juggler  who  had 
left  him  behind  sick  with  fever,  and  that  he  would  pick  up  his 
master  at  Umballa.  As  the  occupants  of  the  carriage  changed, 
he  varied  the  tale,  or  adorned  it  with  all  the  shoots  of  a  budding 
fancy,  the  more  rampant  for  being  held  off  native  speech  so  long. 
In  all  India  that  night  was  no  human  being  so  joyful  as  Kim.  At 
Umballa  he  got  out  and  headed  eastward,  plashing  over  the  sodden 
fields  to  the  village  where  the  old  soldier  lived. 

About  this  time  Colonel  Creighton  at  Simla  was  advised  from 
Lucknow  by  wire  that  young  O'Hara  had  disappeared.  Mah- 
bub  Ali  was  up  there  selling  horses,  and  to  him  the  Colonel  con- 
fided the  affair  one  morning  when  they  were  cantering  round  the 
Annandale  race-course. 
.  'Oh,  that  is  nothing,'  said  the  horse-dealer.  'Men  are  like 


KIM  157 

horses.  At  certain  times  they  need  salt,  and  if  that  salt  is  not 
in  the  mangers  they  will  lick  it  up  from  the  earth.  He  has  gone 
back  to  the  road  again  for  a  while.  The  madrissah  wearied  him. 
I  knew  it  would.  Another  time,  I  will  take  him  upon  the  road 
myself.  Do  not  be  troubled,  Creighton  Sahib.  I  know  the  boy. 
It  is  as  though  a  polo-pony,  breaking  loose,  ran  out  to  learn  the 
game  alone.' 

'Then  he  is  not  dead,  think  you?' 

'Fever  might  kill  him.  I  do  not  fear  for  the  boy  otherwise. 
A  monkey  does  not  fall  among  trees.' 

Next  morning,  on  the  same  course,  Mahbub's  stallion  ranged 
alongside  the  Colonel. 

'It  is  as  I  had  thought,'  said  the  horse-dealer.  'He  has  come 
through  Umballa  at  least,  and  there  he  has  written  a  letter  to  me, 
having  learned  in  the  bazar  that  I  was  here.' 

'Read,'  said  the  Colonel,  with  a  sigh  of  relief.  It  was  absurd 
that  a  man  of  his  position  should  take  an  interest  in  a  little  country- 
bred  vagabond;  but  the  Colonel  remembered  the  conversation  in 
the  train,  and  often  in  the  past  few  months  had  caught  himself 
thinking  of  queer,  silent,  self-possessed  Kim.  His  evasion,  of 
course,  was  the  height  of  insolence,  but  it  argued  unlimited  re- 
source and  nerve. 

Mahbub's  eyes  twinkled  as  he  reined  out  into  the  centre  of 
the  cramped  little  course,  where  none  could  come  near  them 
unseen. 

' "  The  Friend  of  the  Stars,  who  is  the  Friend  of  all  the  World ' 

'What  is  this?' 

'A  name  we  give  him  in  Lahore  city.  "The  Friend  of  all  the 
World  takes  leave  to  go  to  his  own  place.  He  will  come  back  upon 
the  appointed  day.  Let  the  box  and  the  bedding-roll  be  sent  for;  and 


158  KIM 

if  there  has  been  a  fault,  let  the  hand  of  friendship  turn  aside  the  whip 
of  calamity."  There  is  yet  a  little  more,  but ' 

'No  matter,  read.' 

* "  Certain  things  are  not  known  to  those  who  eat  with  forks.  It  is 
better  to  eat  with  both  hands  for  a  while.  Speak  soft  words  to  those 
who  do  not  understand  this  that  the  return  may  be  propitious."  Now 
the  manner  in  which  that  was  cast  is  of  course  the  work  of  the 
letter-writer,  but  see  how  wisely  the  boy  has  devised  the  matter 
of  it  so  that  no  hint  is  given  except  to  those  who  know.' 

'Is  this  the  hand  of  friendship  to  avert  the  whip  of  calamity?' 
laughed  the  Colonel. 

'See  how  wise  is  the  boy.  He  would  go  back  to  the  road  again, 
as  I  said.  Not  knowing  yet  thy  trade ' 

'I  am  not  quite  sure  of  that,'  the  Colonel  muttered. 

'He  turns  to  me  to  make  a  peace  between  you.  Is  he  not  wise? 
He  says  he  will  return.  He  is  but  perfecting  his  knowledge. 
Think,  Sahib!  He  has  been  three  months  at  the  school.  Can 
he  become  a  Sahib?  For  my  part,  I  rejoice.  The  pony  learns 
the  game.' 

'Ay,  but  another  time  he  must  not  go  alone.' 

'Why?  He  went  alone  before  he  came  under  the  Colonel  Sahib's 
protection.  When  he  comes  to  the  great  game  he  must  go  alone 
—  alone,  and  at  peril  of  his  head.  Then,  if  he  spits,  or  sneezes, 
or  sits  down  other  than  as  the  people  do  whom  he  watches,  he  may 
be  slain.  Why  hinder  him  now  ?  Remember  how  the  Persians  say: 
The  jackal  that  lives  in  the  wilds  of  Mazanderan  can  only  be  caught 
by  the  hounds  of  Mazanderan.9 

'True.  It  is  true,  Mahbub  Ali.  And  if  he  comes  to  no  harm, 
I  do  not  desire  anything  better.  But  it  is  great  insolence  on  his 
part.' 


KIM  159 

'He  does  not  tell  me,  even,  whither  he  goes,'  said  Mahbub. 
'He  is  no  child.  When  his  time  is  accomplished  he  will  come  to 
me.  I  am  his  friend.' 

This  prophecy  was  fulfilled  to  the  letter  a  month  later.  Mah- 
bub had  gone  down  to  Umballa  to  bring  up  a  fresh  consignment 
of  horses,  and  Kim  met  him  on  the  Kalka  road  at  dusk  riding  alone, 
begged  an  alms  of  him  and  was  sworn  at,  and  replied  in  English. 
There  was  nobody  within  earshot  to  hear  Mahbub's  gasp  of  amaze- 
ment. 

'Oho!    And  where  hast  thou  been?' 

'Up  and  down  —  down  and  up.' 

'Come  under  a  tree,  out  of  the  wet,  and  tell.' 

*I  stayed  for  a  while  with  an  old  man  near  Umballa;  anon  with 
household  of  my  acquaintance  in  Umballa.  With  one  of  these 
I  went  as  far  as  Delhi  to  the  southward.  That  is  a  wondrous  ity. 
Then  I  drove  a  bullock  for  a  teli  (an  oilman)  coming  north;  but 
I  heard  of  a  great  feast  forward  in  Puttiala,  and  thither  I  went  in 
the  company  of  a  firework-maker.  It  was  a  great  feast'  (Kim 
rubbed  his  stomach).  'I  saw  Rajahs,  and  elephants  with  gold  and 
silver  trappings;  and  they  lit  all  the  fireworks  at  once  whereby 
eleven  men  were  killed,  my  firework-maker  among  them,  and  I 
was  blown  across  a  tent  but  took  no  harm.  Then  I  came  back 
to  the  line  with  a  Sikh  horseman,  to  whom  I  was  groom  for  my 
bread;  and  so  here.' 

'Shabash!'  said  Mahbub  Ali. 

'But  what  does  the  Colonel  Sahib  say?  I  do  not  wish  to  be 
beaten.' 

'The  hand  of  friendship  has  averted  the  whip  of  calamity;  but 
another  time,  when  thou  takest  the  Road  it  will  be  with  me.' 

'Shabash!'  said  Kim  in  his  turn.     'I  have  learned  to  read  and 


160  KIM 

to  write  English  a  little  at  the  madrissah.  I  shall  soon  be  alto- 
gether a  Sahib/ 

'Hear  him!'  laughed  Mahbub,  looking  at  the  little  drenched 
figure  dancing  in  the  wet.  'Salaam  —  Sahib,'  and  he  saluted 
ironically.  'Well,  art  thou  tired  of  the  Road,  or  wilt  thou  come 
on  to  Umballa  with  me  and  work  back  with  the  horses?' 

'  I  come  with  thee,  Mahbub  Ali.' 


CHAPTER  VIII 

Something  I  owe  to  the  soil  that  grew  — 

More  to  the  life  that  fed  — 
But  most  to  Allah  Who  gave  me  two 

Separate  sides  to  my  head. 

I  would  go  without  shirts  or  shoes 

Friends,  tobacco,  or  bread, 
Sooner  than  for  an  instant  lose 

Either  side  of  my  head. 

'THEN  in  God's  name  take  blue  for  red,'  said  Mahbub,  alluding 
to  the  Hindu  colour  of  Kim's  disreputable  turban. 

Kim  countered  with  the  old  proverb,  'I  will  change  my  faith 
and  my  bedding,  but  thou  must  pay  for  it.' 

Mahbub  Ali  laughed  till  he  nearly  fell  from  his  horse.  At  a  shop 
on  the  outskirts  of  the  city  the  change  was  made,  and  Kim  stood 
up,  externally  at  least,  a  Mohammedan. 

Mahbub  hired  a  room  over  against  the  railway  station,  sent  for 
a  cooked  meal  of  the  finest  with  almond  curried  sweetmeats 
(balushai,  they  call  it)  and  fine-chopped  Lucknow  tobacco. 

'This  is  better  than  some  other  meat  that  I  ate  with  the  Sikh,' 
said  Kim,  grinning  as  he  squatted,  'and  assuredly  they  give  no 
such  victuals  at  my  madrissah.9 

'I  have  a  desire  to  hear  of  that  same  madrissah?  Mahbub 
stuffed  himself  with  great  boluses  of  spiced  mutton  fried  in  fat 
with  cabbage  and  golden-brown  onions.  'But  tell  me  first,  alto- 
gether and  truthfully,  the  manner  of  thy  escape.  For,  O  Friend 

161 


162  KIM 

of  all  the  World,'  —  he  loosed  his  almost  cracking  belt,  —  'I 
do  not  think  it  is  often  that  a  Sahib  and  the  son  of  a  Sahib  runs 
away  from  there/ 

*  How  should  they?    They  do  not  know  the  land.     It  was  noth- 
ing,' said  Kim,  and  began  his  tale.     When  he  came  to  the  disguise- 
ment  and  the  interview  with  the  girl  in  the  bazar,  Mahbub  Ali's 
gravity  went  from  him.     He  laughed  aloud  and  beat  his  hand  on 
his  thigh. 

'Shabash!  Shabash!  Oh,  well  done,  little  one!  What  will 
Lurgan  Sahib  say  to  this?  Take  my  pipe  a  while,  for  where  there 
is  no  eye  there  is  no  caste,  as  the  Hindus  say.  Now,  slowly,  let 
us  hear  what  befell  afterwards  —  step  by  step,  omitting  nothing.' 

Step  by  step  then,  Kim  told  his  adventures  between  coughs  as 
the  full-flavoured  tobacco  caught  his  lungs. 

'I  said,'  growled  Mahbub  Ali  to  himself,  'I  said  it  was  the  pony 
breaking  out  to  play  polo.  The  fruit  is  ripe  already  —  except 
that  he  must  learn  his  distances  and  his  pacings,  and  his  rods  and 
his  compasses  and  the  length  of  his  chains. 

*  Listen  now.     I  have  turned  aside  the  Colonel's  whip  from  thy 
skin,  and  that  is  no  small  service.' 

'True.'     Kim  puffed  serenely.     'That  is  all  true.' 

'  But  it  is  not  to  be  thought  that  this  running  back  and  forth  of 
thine  is  in  any  way  good.' 

'  It  was  my  holiday,  Hajji.  I  was  a  slave  for  many  weeks.  Why 
should  I  not  run  away  when  the  school  was  shut  ?  Look,  too,  how 
I,  living  upon  my  friends  or  working  for  my  bread,  as  I  did  with 
the  Sikh,  have  saved  the  Colonel  Sahib  a  great  expense.' 

Mahbub's  lips  twitched  under  his  well-pruned  Mohammedan 
moustache. 

'What  are  a  few  rupees'  —  the  Pa  than  threw  out  his  open  hand 


KIM  163 

carelessly  —  'to  the  Colonel  Sahib  ?  He  spends  them  for  a  purpose, 
not  in  any  way  for  love  of  thee.' 

'That,'  said  Kim  slowly,  'I  knew  a  very  long  time  ago.' 

4 Who  told?' 

'The  Colonel  Sahib  himself.  Not  in  those  very  words,  but 
plainly  enough  for  one  who  is  not  altogether  a  mud-head.  Yea, 
he  told  me  in  the  te-rain  when  we  went  down  to  the  madrissah? 

'Be  it  so.  Then  I  will  tell  thee  more,  Friend  of  all  the  World, 
though  in  the  telling  I  lend  thee  my  head.' 

'It  was  forfeit  to  me,'  said  Kim,  with  deep  relish,  'in  Umballa, 
when  thou  didst  pick  me  up  on  the  horse  when  the  drummer-boy 
beat  me.' 

'Speak  a  little  plainer.  All  the  world  may  tell  lies  save  thou 
and  I.  For  equally  is  thy  life  forfeit  to  me  if  I  chose  to  raise  my 
finger  here.' 

'And  this  is  known  to  me  also,'  said  Kim,  readjusting  the  live 
charcoal-ball  on  the  weed.  'It  is  a  very  sure  tie  between  us.  In- 
deed thy  hold  is  surer  even  than  mine;  for  who  would  miss  a  boy 
beaten  to  death,  or,  it  may  be,  thrown  into  a  well  by  the  roadside? 
Many  people  here  and  in  Simla  and  across  the  passes  behind  the 
hills  would,  on  the  other  hand,  say:  "What  has  come  to  Mahbub 
Ali,"  if  he  were  found  dead  among  his  horses.  Surely  too  the 
Colonel  Sahib  would  make  inquiries.  But  again,'  —  Kim's  face 
puckered  with  cunning,  —  'he  would  not  make  overlong  inquiry, 
lest  people  should  ask:  "What  has  this  Colonel  Sahib  to  do  with 
that  horse-dealer?"  But  I  —  if  I  lived ' 

'As  thou  wouldst  surely  die ' 

'  It  may  be,  but  I  say,  if  I  lived,  I,  and  I  alone,  would  know  that 
one  came  by  night,  as  a  common  thief  perhaps,  to  Mahbub  Ali's 
bulkhead  in  the  serai,  and  there  slew  him,  either  before  or  after 


1 64  KIM 

that  tha-t  thief  had  made  a  full  search  into  his  saddle-bags  and 
between  the  soles  of  his  slippers.  Is  that  news  to  tell  to  the  Colonel, 
or  would  he  say  to  me  —  (I  have  not  forgotten  when  he  sent  me 
back  for  a  cigar-case  that  he  had  not  left  behind  him)  —  would  the 
Colonel  say:  "What  is  Mahbub  Ali  to  me?"' 

Up  went  a  gout  of  heavy  smoke.  There  was  a  long  pause.  Then 
Mahbub  Ali  spoke  in  admiration:  'And  with  these  things  on  thy 
mind,  dost  thou  lie  down  and  rise  again  among  all  the  Sahibs' 
little  sons  at  the  madrissah  and  meekly  take  instruction  from  thy 
teachers?' 

'It  is  an  order,'  said  Kim  blandly.  'Who  am  I  to  dispute  an 
order?' 

'A  most  finished  son  of  Eblis,'  said  Mahbub  Ali.  'But  what  is 
this  tale  of  the  thief  and  the  search?' 

'That  which  I  saw,'  said  Kim,  'the  night  my  lama  (hai  mai!) 
and  I  lay  next  thy  place  in  the  Kashmir  Serai.  The  door  was  left 
unlocked,  which  I  think  is  not  thy  custom,  Mahbub.  He  came  in 
as  one  assured  that  thou  wouldst  not  soon  return.  My  eye  was 
against  a  knot-hole  in  the  plank.  He  searched  as  it  were  for  some- 
thing -  -  not  a  rug,  not  stirrups,  nor  a  bridle,  nor  brass  pots — 
something  little  and  most  carefully  hid.  Else  why  did  he  pick 
with  an  iron  between  the  soles  of  thy  slippers?' 

'Ha!'  Mahbub  Ali  smiled  gently.  'And  seeing  these  things, 
what  tale  didst  thou  fashion  to  thyself,  Well  of  the  Truth?' 

'None.  I  put  my  hand  upon  my  amulet,  which  lies  always 
next  to  my  skin,  and,  remembering  the  pedigree  of  a  white  stallion 
that  I  had  bitten  out  of  a  piece  of  Mussalmani  bread,  I  went  away 
to  Umballa  perceiving  that  a  heavy  trust  was  laid  upon  me.  At 
that  hour,  had  I  chosen,  thy  head  was  forfeit.  It  needed  only 
to  say  to  any  man,  "I  have  here  a  paper  concerning  a  horse  which 


KIM  165 

I  cannot  read."  And  then?'  Kim  peered  at  Mahbub  under  his 
eyebrows. 

'Then  thou  wouldst  have  drunk  water  twice  —  perhaps  thrice, 
afterwards.  I  do  not  think  more  than  thrice,'  said  Mahbub 
simply. 

'It  is  true.  I  thought  of  that  a  little,  but  most  I  thought  that  I 
loved  thee,  Mahbub.  Therefore  I  went  to  Umballa,  as  thou 
knowest,  but  (and  this  thou  dost  not  know)  I  lay  hid  in  the  garden 
grass  waiting  to  see  what  Colonel  Creighton  Sahib  might  do  upon 
reading  the  white  stallion's  pedigree.' 

'And  what  did  he?'  for  Kim  had  bitten  off  the  conversation. 

'Dost  thou  give  news  for  love,  or  dost  thou  sell  it?'  Kim  asked. 

'I  sell  and  —  I  buy.'  Mahbub  took  a  four-anna  piece  out  of 
his  belt  and  held  it  up. 

'Eight,'  said  Kim,  mechanically  following  the  huckster  instinct 
of  the  East. 

Mahbub  laughed,  and  put  away  the  coin.  'It  is  too  easy  to 
deal  in  that  market,  Friend  of  all  the  World.  Tell  me  for  love. 
Our  lives  lie  in  each  other's  hand.' 

'Very  good.  I  saw  the  Jang-i-Lat  Sahib  come  to  a  big  dinner. 
I  saw  him  in  Creighton  Sahib's  office.  I  saw  the  two  read  the 
white  stallion's  pedigree.  I  heard  the  very  orders  given  for  the 
opening  of  a  great  war.' 

'Hah!'  Mahbub  nodded  with  deepest  eyes  afire.  'The  game  is 
well  played.  That  war  is  done  now,  and  the  evil  nipped  before 
the  flower  —  thanks  to  me  —  and  thee.  And  what  didst  thou 
do  later?' 

'I  made  the  news  as  it  were  a  hook  to  catch  me  victual  and 
honour  among  the  villagers  in  a  village  whose  priest  drugged  my 
lama.  But  I  bore  away  the  old  man's  purse,  and  the  Brahmin 


166  KIM 

found  nothing.  So  next  morning  he  was  angry.  Ho!  Ho!  And 
I  also  used  the  news  when  I  fell  into  the  hands  of  that  white  regi- 
ment with  their  Bull ! ' 

'That  was  foolishness.'  Mahbub  scowled.  'News  is  not  meant 
to  be  thrown  about  like  dung-cakes,  but  used  sparingly  —  like 
bhang.9 

'So  I  think  now,  and  moreover,) it  did  me  no  sort  of  good.  But 
that  was  very  long  ago,'  —  he  made  as  to  brush  it  all  away  with 
a  thin  brown  hand,  —  'and  since  then,  and  especially  in  the  night 
under  the  punkah  at  the  madrissah,  I  have  thought  very  greatly.' 

'Is  it  permitted  to  ask  whither  the  Heaven-born's  thought 
might  have  led?'  said  Mahbub,  with  an  elaborate  sarcasm,  smooth- 
ing his  scarlet  beard. 

'It  is  permitted,'  said  Kim,  and  threw  back  the  very  tone.  'They 
say  at  the  madrissah  that  no  Sahib  must  tell  a  black  man  that  he 
has  made  a  fault.' 

Mahbub's  hand  shot  into  his  bosom,  for  to  call  a  Pathan  a 
'black  man'  (kala  admi)  is  a  blood  insult.  Then  he  remembered 
and  laughed.  'Speak,  Sahib,  thy  black  man  hears.' 

'But,'  said  Kim,  'I  am  not  a  Sahib,  and  I  say  I  made  a  fault 
when  I  cursed  thee,  Mahbub  Ali,  on  the  day  at  Umballa  I  thought 
I  was  betrayed  by  a  Pathan.  I  was  senseless;  for  I  was  but  newly 
caught,  and  I  wished  to  kill  that  low-caste  drummer-boy.  I  say 
now,  Hajji,  that  it  was  well  done;  and  I  see  my  road  all  clear  before 
me.  I  will  stay  in  the  madrissah,  and  I  will  learn  their  teaching 
till  I  am  ripe.' 

'Well  said.  Especially  are  distances  and  numbers  and  the 
manner  of  using  compasses  to  be  learned  —  in  that  game  one  waits 
in  the  halls  above  to  show  thee.' 

'I  will  learn  their  teaching  upon  a  condition  —  that  my  time 


KIM  167 

is  given  to  me  without  question  when  the  madrissah  is  shut.     Ask 
that  for  me  of  the  Colonel.' 

1  But  why  not  ask  the  Colonel  in  the  Sahib's  tongue?' 

'The  Colonel  is  the  servant  of  the  Sirkar  (the  Government). 
He  is  sent  hither  and  yon  at  a  word,  and  must  consider  his  own 
advancement.  (See  how  much  I  have  already  learned  at  the  mad- 
rissah. Moreover,  the  Colonel  I  know  since  three  months  only.  I 
have  known  one  Mahbub  Ali  for  six  years.  So !  To  the  madrissah 
I  will  go.  At  the  madrissah  I  will  learn.  In  the  madrissah  I  will 
be  a  Sahib.  But  when  the  madrissah  is  shut,  then  must  I  be  free 
and  go  among  my  people.  Otherwise  I  die!' 

'And  who  are  thy  people,  O  Friend  of  all  the  World?' 

'This  great  and  beautiful  land,'  said  Kim,  waving  his  hand 
round  the  little  clay-walled  room  where  the  oil-lamp  in  its  niche 
burned  heavily  through  the  tobacco-smoke.  'And,  further,  I  would 
see  my  lama  again.  And,  further,  I  need  money.' 

'That  is  the  need  of  every  one,'  said  Mahbub  ruefully.  'I  will 
give  thee  eight  annas,  for  much  money  is  not  picked  out  of  horses' 
hooves,  and  that  must  suffice  thee  for  many  days.  As  to  all  the 
rest,  I  am  well  pleased,  and  no  further  talk  is  needed.  Make 
haste  to  learn,  and  in  three  years,  or  it  may  be  less,  thou  wilt  be 
an  aid  —  even  to  me.' 

'Have  I  been  such  a  hindrance  till  now?'  said  Kim,  with  a  boy's 
giggle. 

'Do  not  give  answers,'  Mahbub  grunted.  'Thou  art  now  my 
horse-boy.  Go  and  bed  among  my  men.  They  are  near  the  north 
end  of  the  station,  with  the  horses.' 

'They  will  beat  me  to  the  south  end  of  the  station  if  I  come  with- 
out authority.' 

Mahbub  felt  in  his  bosom,  wetted  his  thumb  on  a  cake  of  Chinese 


i68  KIM 

ink,  and  dabbed  the  impression  on  a  piece  of  soft  native  paper. 
From  Balkh  to  Bombay  men  know  that  rough-ridged  print  with 
the  old  scar  running  diagonally  across  it. 

'That  is  enough  for  thee  to  show  my  headman.  I  come  in  the 
morning.' 

'  By  which  road  ? '  said  Kim. 

'By  the  road  from  the  city.  There  is  but  one,  and  then  we 
return  to  Creighton  Sahib.  I  have  saved  thee  a  beating.' 

'Allah!  What  is  a  beating  when  the  very  head  is  loose  on  the 
shoulders  ? ' 

Kim  slid  out  quietly  into  the  night,  walked  half  round  the  house, 
keeping  close  to  the  walls,  and  headed  away  from  the  station  for 
a  mile  or  so.  Then,  fetching  a  wide  compass,  he  worked  back  at 
leisure,  for  he  needed  time  to  invent  a  story  if  any  of  Mahbub's 
retainers  asked  questions. 

They  were  camped  on  a  piece  of  waste  ground,  beside  the  railway 
and,  being  natives,  had  not,  of  course,  unloaded  the  two  trucks  in 
which  Mahbub's  animals  stood  among  a  consignment  of  country- 
breds  bought  by  the  Bombay  tram-company.  The  headman,  a 
broken-down,  consumptive-looking  Mohammedan,  promptly  chal- 
lenged Kim,  but  was  pacified  at  sight  of  Mahbub's  sign-manual. 

'The  Hajji  has  of  his  favour  given  me  service,' said  Kim  testily. 
'If  this  be  doubted,  wait  till  he  comes  in  the  morning.  Meantime, 
give  me  place  by  the  fire.' 

Followed  the  usual  aimless  babble  that  every  low-caste  native 
must  raise  on  every  occasion.  It  died  down,  and  Kim  lay  out 
behind  the  little  knot  of  Mahbub's  followers,  almost  under  the 
wheels  of  a  horse-truck,  a  borrowed  blanket  for  covering.  Now  a 
bed  among  brickbats  and  ballast-refuse  on  a  damp  night,  between 
overcrowded  horses  and  unwashen  Baltis,  would  not  appeal  to 


KIM  169 

many  white  boys;  but  Kim  was  utterly  happy.  Change  of  scene, 
service,  and  surroundings  were  the  breath  of  his  little  nostrils,  and 
thinking  of  the  neat  white  cots  of  St.  Xavier's  all  arow  under  the 
punkah  gave  him  joy  as  keen  as  the  repetition  of  the  multiplication 
table  in  English. 

'I  am  very  old,'  he  thought  sleepily.  ' Every  month  I  become 
a  year  more  old.  I  was  very  young,  and  a  fool  to  boot,  when  I 
took  Mahbub's  message  to  Umballa.  Even  when  I  was  with  that 
white  regiment  I  was  very  young  and  small  and  had  no  wisdom. 
But  now  I  learn  every  day,  and  in  three  years  the  Colonel  will 
take  me  out  of  the  madrissah  and  let  me  go  upon  the  road  with 
Mahbub  hunting  for  horses'  pedigrees,  or  maybe  I  shall  go  by 
myself;  or  maybe  I  shall  find  the  lama  and  go  with  him*  Yes; 
that  is  best.  To  walk  again  as  a  chela  with  my  lama  when  he  comes 
back  to  Benares.'  The  thoughts  came  more  slowly  and  discon- 
nectedly. He  was  plunging  into  a  beautiful  dreamland  when  his 
ears  caught  a  whisper,  thin  and  sharp,  above  the  monotonous 
babble  round  the  fire.  It  seemed  to  come  from  beneath  the  iron- 
skinned  horse-truck. 

'He  is  not  here  then?' 

'Where  should  he  be  but  roystering  in  the  city?  Who  looks  for 
a  rat  in  a  frog-pond?  Come  away.  He  is  not  the  man.' 

'He  must  not  go  back  beyond  the  passes  a  second  time.  It  is 
the  order.' 

'Then  get  some  woman  to  drug  him.  It  is  a  few  rupees  only, 
and  there  is  no  evidence.' 

'Except  the  woman.  It  must  be  a  more  sure  matter;  and  re- 
member the  price  upon  his  head.' 

'Ay,  but  the  Sirkar's  police  have  a  long  arm,  and  we  are  far 
from  the  border.  If  it  were  in  Peshawur  now!' 


170  KIM 

'Yes  —  in  Peshawur,'  the  second  voice  sneered.  'Peshawur, 
full  of  his  blood-kin  -  -  full  of  bolt-holes  and  women  behind  whose 
clothes  he  will  hide.  Yes,  Peshawur  or  Jehannum  would  suit  us 
equally  well.' 

'Then  what  is  the  plan?' 

(O  fool,  have  I  not  told  it  a  hundred  times?  Wait  till  he  comes 
to  lie  down,  and  then  one  sure  shot.  The  trucks  are  between  us 
and  pursuit.  We  have  but  to  run  back  over  the  lines  and  go  our 
way.  They  will  not  see  whence  the  shot  came.  Wait  here  at  least 
till  the  dawn.  What  manner  of  faquir  art  thou  to  shiver  at  a 
little  watching?' 

'Oho!'  thought  Kim,  behind  close-shut  eyes.  'Once  again  it 
is  Mahbub.  Indeed  a  white  stallion's  pedigree  is  not  a  good  thing 
to  peddle  to  Sahibs!  Or  may  be  Mahbub  has  been  selling  other 
news.  Now  what  is  to  do,  Kim?  I  know  not  where  Mahbub 
houses,  and  if  he  comes  here  before  the  dawn  they  will  shoot  him. 
That  would  be  no  profit  for  thee,  Kim.  And  this  is  not  a  matter 
for  the  police.  That  would  be  no  profit  for  Mahbub.  They 
should  have  given  the  matter  over  to  a  woman  for  a  few  rupees. 
But  they  have  not,  and  here  is  Kim  and  yonder  are  they.  First, 
then,  Kim  must  wake  and  go  away,  so  that  they  shall  not  suspect. 
A  bad  dream  wakes  a  man  -  -  thus  - 

He  threw  the  blanket  off  his  face,  and  raised  himself  suddenly 
with  the  terrible,  bubbling,  meaningless  yell  of  an  Asiatic  roused 
by  nightmare. 

'Urr-urr-urr-urr!     Ya-la-la-la-la !     Narain!     The  churel!     The 

churel! ' 

A  churel  is  the  peculiarily  malignant  ghost  of  a  woman  who  has 
died  in  child-bed  and  haunts  lonely  roads.  Her  feet  are  turned 
backward  on  the  ankles,  and  she  leads  men  to  torment. 


KIM  171 

Louder  rose  Kim's  quavering  howl,  till  at  last  he  leaped  to 
his  feet  and  staggered  off  sleepily,  while  the  camp  cursed  him 
for  waking  them.  Some  twenty  yards  farther  up  the  line  he 
lay  down  again,  taking  care  that  the  whisperers  should  hear 
his  grunts  and  groans  as  he  recomposed  himself.  After  a  few 
minutes  he  rolled  toward  the  road  and  stole  away  into  the  thick 
darkness. 

He  paddled  along  swiftly  till  he  came  to  a  culvert,  and  dropped 
behind  it,  his  chin  on  a  level  with  the  coping-stone.  Here  he 
could  command  all  the  night-traffic,  himself  unseen. 

Two  or  three  ekkas  passed,  jingling  out  to  the  suburbs;  a  cough- 
ing policeman,  a  hurrying  foot-passenger  or  two  who  sang  to  keep 
off  evil  spirits.  Then  rapped  the  shod  feet  of  a  horse. 

'Ah!  This  is  more  like  Mahbub,'  thought  Kim,  as  the  beast 
shied  at  the  little  head  above  the  culvert. 

'Ohe,  Mahbub  Ali,'  he  whispered,  'have  a  care.' 

The  horse  was  reined  back  almost  on  its  haunches  and  forced 
toward  the  culvert. 

'Never  again,'  said  Mahbub,  'will  I  take  a  shod  horse  for  night 
work.  They  pick  up  all  the  bones  and  nails  in  the  city.'  He 
stooped  to  lift  its  fore-foot  and  that  brought  his  head  within  a  foot 
of  Kim's.  'Down  —  keep  down,'  he  muttered.  'The  night  is 
full  of  eyes.' 

'Two  men  wait  thy  coming  behind  the  horse-trucks.  They 
will  shoot  thee  at  thy  lying  down,  because  there  is  a  price  on  thy 
head.  I  heard  sleeping  near  the  horses.' 

'Didst  thou  see  them?  .  .  .  Hold  still,  Sire  of  Devils!' 
This  furiously  to  the  horse. 

'No.' 

'Was  one  dressed  belike  as  a  faquir?' 


172  KIM 

'I  did  not  see,  but  one  said  to  the  other,  "What  manner  of  a 
faquir  art  thou,  to  shiver  at  a  little  watching?'1 

'Good.  Go  back  to  the  camp  and  lie  down.  I  do  not  die  to- 
night.' 

Mahbub  wheeled  his  horse  and  vanished.  Kim  tore  back  down 
the  ditch  till  he  reached  a  point  opposite  his  second  resting-place, 
slipped  across  the  road  like  a  weasel,  and  re-coiled  himself  in  the 
blanket. 

'At  least  Mahbub  knows,'  he  thought  contentedly.  'And  cer- 
tainly he  spoke  as  one  expecting  it.  I  do  not  think  those  two  men 
will  profit  by  to-night's  watch.' 

An  hour  passed,  and  Kim,  with  the  best  will  in  the  world  to  keep 
awake  all  night,  slept  deeply.  Now  and  again  a  night  train  roared 
along  the  metals  within  twenty  feet  of  him;  but  he  had  all  the 
Oriental's  indifference  to  mere  noise,  and  it  did  not  even  weave  a 
dream  through  his  slumber.  Mahbub  was  anything  but  asleep.  It 
annoyed  him  vehemently  that  people  outside  his  tribe  and  unaffected 
by  his  casual  amours  should  pursue  him  for  the  life.  His  first  and 
natural  impulse  was  to  cross  the  line  lower  down,  work  up  again, 
and,  catching  his  well-wishers  from  behind,  summarily  slay  them. 
Here,  he  reflected  with  sorrow,  another  branch  of  the  Government, 
totally  unconnected  with  Colonel  Creighton,  might  demand  ex- 
planations which  would  be  hard  to  supply;  and  he  knew  that  south 
the  border  a  perfectly  ridiculous  fuss  is  made  about  a  corpse  or  so. 
He  had  not  been  troubled  in  this  way  since  he  sent  Kim  to  Umballa 
with  the  message,  and  hoped  that  suspicion  had  been  finally  di- 
verted. 

Then  a  most  brilliant  notion  struck  him. 

'The  English  do  eternally  tell  the  truth,'  he  said,  'therefore  we 
of  this  country  are  eternally  made  foolish.  By  Allah,  I  will  tell 


KIM  173 

the  truth  to  an  Englishman!  Of  what  use  is  the  Sirkar's  police 
if  a  poor  Kabuli  is  robbed  of  his  horses  in  their  very  trucks.  This 
is  as  bad  as  Peshawur!  I  should  lay  a  complaint  at  the  Thanah. 
Better  still,  some  young  Sahib  on  the  railway.  They  are  zealous, 
and  if  they  catch  thieves  it  is  remembered  to  their  honour.' 

He  tied  up  his  horse  outside  the  station,  and  strode  on  to  the 
platform. 

*  Hullo,  Mahbub  AH,'  said  a  young  Assistant  District  Traffic 
Superintendent  who  was  waiting  to  go  down  the  line  —  a  tall, 
tow-haired,  horsey  youth  in   dingy  white  linen.     'What  are  you 
doing  here?     Selling  crocks,  eh?' 

1  No;  I  am  not  troubled  for  my  horses.  I  come  to  look  for  Lutuf 
Ullah.  I  have  a  truck-load  up  the  line.  Could  any  one  take  them 
out  without  the  Railway's  knowledge?' 

*  Shouldn't  think  so,  Mahbub.     You  can  claim  against  us  if 
they  do. ' 

'I  have  seen  two  men  crouching  under  the  wheels  of  one  of  the 
trucks  nearly  all  the  night.  Faquirs  do  not  steal  horses,  so  I 
gave  them  no  more  thought.  I  would  find  Lutuf  Ullah,  my 
partner.' 

'The  deuce  you  did!  And  you  didn't  bother  your  head  about 
it?  'Pon  my  word,  it's  just  almost  as  well  that  I  met  you.  What 
were  they  like,  eh?' 

'They  were  only  faquirs.  They  will  no  more  than  take  a  little 
grain  perhaps  from  one  of  the  trucks.  There  are  many  up  the 
line.  The  Sirkar  will  never  miss  the  dole.  I  came  here  seeking 
for  my  partner,  Lutuf  Ullah ' 

'Never  mind  your  partner.     Where  are  your  horse-trucks?' 

'A  little  to  this  side  of  the  farthest  place  where  they  make  lamps 
for  the  trains.' 


174  K  I  M 

'The  signal-box.     Yes.' 

'And  upon  the  rail  nearest  to  the  road  upon  the  right-hand  side 

—  looking  up  the  line  thus.       But  as  regards  Lutuf  Ullah  —  a  tall 
man  with  a  broken  nose,  and  a  Persian  greyhound  —  AieP 

The  boy  had  hurried  off  to  wake  up  a  young  and  enthusiastic 
policeman;  for,  as  he  said,  the  railway  had  suffered  much  from 
depredations  in  the  goods-yard.  Mahbub  Ali  chuckled  in  his 
dyed  beard. 

'They  will  walk  in  their  boots,  making  a  noise,  and  then  they 
will  wonder  why  there  are  no  faquirs.  They  are  very  clever  boys 

—  Barton  Sahib  and  Young  Sahib.' 

He  waited  idly  for  a  few  minutes,  expecting  to  see  them  hurry 
up  the  line  girt  for  action.  A  light  engine  slid  through  the  station, 
and  he  caught  a  glimpse  of  young  Barton  in  the  cab. 

'I  did  that  child  an  injustice.  He  is  not  altogether  a  fool,' 
said  Mahbub  Ali.  'To  take  a  fire  carnage  for  a  thief  is  a  new 
game.' 

When  Mahbub  Ali  came  to  his  camp  in  the  dawn,  no  one  thought 
it  worth  while  to  tell  him  any  news  of  the  night.  No  one,  at  least, 
but  one  small  horse-boy,  newly  advanced  to  the  great  man's 
service,  whom  Mahbub  called  to  his  tiny  tent  to  assist  in  some 
packing. 

'It  is  all  known  to  me,'  whispered  Kim,  bending  above  saddle- 
bags. 'Two  Sahibs  came  up  on  a  te-rain.  I  was  running  to  and 
fro  in  the  dark  on  this  side  of  the  trucks  as  the  te-rain  moved  up 
and  down  slowly.  They  fell  upon  two  men  sitting  under  this 
truck  —  Hajji,  what  shall  I  do  with  this  lump  of  tobacco?  Wrap 
it  in  paper  and  put  it  under  the  salt-bag?  Yes  —  and  struck  them 
down.  But  one  man  struck  at  a  Sahib  with  a  faquir's  buck's  horn' 
(Kim  meant  the  conjoined  black  buck  horns,  which  are  a  faquir's 


KIM  175 

sole  temporal  weapon)  —  'the  blood  came.  So  the  other  Sahib, 
first  smiting  his  own  man  senseless,  smote  the  stabber  with  a  short 
gun  which  had  rolled  from  the  first  man's  hand.  They  all  raged 
as  though  mad  together.' 

Mahbub  smiled  with  heavenly  resignation.  'No!  That  is  not 
so  much  dewanee  (madness,  or  a  case  for  the  civil  court  —  the  word 
can  be  punned  upon  both  ways)  as  nigamut  (  a  criminal  case).  A 
gun  sayest  thou?  that  is  good  ten  years  in  jail.' 
;  'Then  they  both  lay  still,  but  I  think  they  were  nearly  dead 
when  they  were  put  on  the  te-rain.  Their  heads  moved  thus. 
And  there  is  much  blood  on  the  line.' 

'I  would  not  have  them  dead.  Jail  is  the  sure  place  —  and 
assuredly  they  will  give  false  names,  and  assuredly  no  man  will 
see  them  for  a  long  time.  A  Pathan  would  scarcely  have  done 
better.  They  were  unfriends  of  mine.  Now  quickly  with  the 
saddle-bags  and  the  cooking-platter.  We  will  take  out  the  horses 
and  away  to  Simla.' 

Swiftly,  —  as  Orientals  understand  speed,  —  with  long  expla- 
nations, with  abuse  and  windy  talk,  carelessly,  amid  a  hundred 
checks  for  little  things  forgotten,  the  untidy  camp  broke  up 
and  led  the  half-dozen  stiff  and  fretful  horses  along  the 
Kalka  road  in  the  fresh  of  the  rain-swept  dawn.  Kim,  re- 
garded as  Mahbub  Ali's  favourite  by  all  who  wished  to  stand 
well  with  the  Pathan,  was  not  called  upon  to  work.  They 
strolled  on  by  the  easiest  of  stages,  halting  every  few  hours  at  a 
wayside  shelter.  Very  many  Sahibs  travel  along  the  Kalka  road; 
and,  as  Mahbub  All  says,  every  young  Sahib  must  needs  esteem 
himself  a  judge  of  a  horse,  and,  though  he  be  up  to  his  teeth  in 
debt  to  the  money-lender,  must  make  as  if  to  buy.  That  was  the 
reason  that  Sahib  after  Sahib,  rolling  along  in  a  stage-carriage, 


I76  KIM 

would  stop  and  open  talk.  Some  would  even  descend  from  the 
dak-gharries  and  feel  the  horses'  legs;  asking  inane  questions,  or, 
through  sheer  ignorance  of  the  vernacular,  grossly  insulting  the 
imperturbable  trader. 

'When  first  I  dealt  with  Sahibs,  and  that  was  when  Colonel 
Soady  Sahib  was  Governor  of  Fort  Abazai  and  flooded  the  com- 
missioners' camping-ground  for  spite,'  Mahbub  confided  to  Kim 
as  the  boy  filled  his  pipe  under  a  tree,  '  I  did  not  know  how  greatly 

they  were  fools,  and  this  made  me  wroth.  As  thus '  and  he 

told  Kim  a  tale  of  an  expression,  misused  in  all  innocence,  that 
doubled  Kim  up  with  mirth.  'Now  I  see,  however,'  —  he  exhaled 
smoke  slowly,  —  'that  it  is  with  them  as  with  all  men  —  in  certain 
matters  they  are  wise,  and  in  others  most  foolish.  Very  foolish 
it  is  to  use  the  wrong  word  to  a  stranger;  for  though  the  heart  may 
be  clean  of  offence,  how  is  the  stranger  to  know  that?  He  is  more 
like  to  search  truth  with  a  dagger.' 

'True.  True  talk,'  said  Kim  solemnly.  'One  who  speaks  of  a 
cat  when  a  woman  is  brought  to  bed,  for  instance.  I  have  heard 
that.' 

'Therefore,  in  one  situate  as  thou  art,  it  particularly  behoves 
thee  to  remember  this  with  both  kinds  of  faces.  Among  Sahibs, 
never  forgetting  thou  art  a  Sahib;  among  the  folk  of  Hind,  always 
remembering  thou  art '  he  paused,  with  a  puzzled  smile. 

'What  am  I?  Mussalman,  Hindu,  Jain,  or  Buddhist?  That 
is  a  hard  nut.'  Kim  smiled. 

'Thou  art  beyond  question  an  unbeliever,  and  therefore  thou 
wilt  be  damned.  So  says  the  Canoon  of  my  Law  —  or  I  think  it 
does.  But  thou  art  also  my  Little  Friend  of  all  the  World,  and  I 
love  thee.  So  says  my  heart.  This  matter  of  creeds  is  like  horse- 
flesh. The  wise  man  knows  horses  are  good  —  that  there  is  a 


KIM  177 

profit  to  be  made  from  all;  and  for  myself,  bet  that  I  am  a  good 
Sunni  and  hate  the  men  of  Tirah.  I  could  believe  the  same  of  all 
the  faiths.  Now  manifestly  a  Kattiawar  mare  taken  from  the 
sands  of  her  birthplace  and  removed  to  the  west  of  Bengal  becomes 
lame  —  nor  is  even  a  Balkh  stallion  (and  there  are  no  better  horses 
than  those  of  Balkh,  were  they  not  so  heavy  in  the  shoulder)  of 
any  account  in  the  great  Northern  deserts  beside  the  snow-camels 
I  have  seen.  Therefore  I  say  in  my  heart  the  faiths  are  like  the 
horses.  Each  has  merit  in  its  own  country.' 

'Now  my  lama  said  altogether  a  different  thing.' 

'Oh,  he  is  an  old  dreamer  of  dreams  from  Bhotiyal.  My  heart 
is  a  little  angry,  Friend  of  all  the  World,  that  thou  shouldst  see 
such  worth  in  a  man  so  little  known.' 

'True.  It  is  true,  Hajji,  but  that  worth  do  I  see;  and  to  him 
my  heart  is  drawn.' 

'And  his  to  thine.  Hearts  are  like  horses.  They  come  and 
they  go  against  bit  or  spur.  Shout  to  Gul  Sher  Khan  yonder  to 
drive  in  that  bay  stallion's  pickets  more  firmly.  We  do  not  want 
a  horse-fight  at  every  resting-stage,  and  the  dun  and  the  black 
will  be  locked  in  a  little.  .  .  .  Now  hear  me.  Is  it  necessary 
to  the  comfort  of  thy  heart  to  see  that  lama  ? ' 

'It  is  one  part  of  my  bond,'  said  Kim.  'If  I  do  not  see  him, 
and  if  he  is  taken  from  me,  I  will  go  out  of  that  madrissah  in  Nuck- 
lao  and,  and  —  once  gone,  who  is  to  find  me  again?' 

'  It  is  true.  Never  was  colt  held  on  a  lighter  heel-rope  than  thou.' 
Mahbub  nodded  his  head. 

'Do  not  be  afraid.'  Kim  spoke  as  though  he  could  have  evan- 
ished on  the  moment.  'My  lama  has  said  that  he  will  come  to  see 
me  at  the  madrissah ' 

'A  beggar  and  his  bowl  in  the  presence  of  those  young  Sa ' 


178  KIM 

' KeraniSy  Kim  cut  in  with  a  snort.  ' Their  eyes  are  blued  and 
their  nails  are  blackened  with  low-caste  blood  many  of  them.  Sons 
of  meheeranees  -  -brothers-in-law  of  the  bhungi  (sweeper).' 

We  need  not  follow  the  rest  of  the  pedigree;  but  Kim  made  his 
little  point  clearly  and  without  heat,  chewing  a  piece  of  sugar-cane 
the  while. 

'Friend  of  all  the  World,'  said  Mahbub,  pushing  over  the  pipe 
for  the  boy  to  clean,  'I  have  met  many  men,  women,  and  boys, 
and  not  a  few  Sahibs.  I  have  never  in  all  my  days  met  such  an 
imp  as  thou  art.' 

'And  why?     When  I  always  tell  thee  the  truth.' 

'That  is  perhaps  the  very  reason,  for  this  is  a  world  of  danger 
to  honest  men.'  Mahbub  Ali  hauled  himself  off  the  ground,  girt 
in  his  belt,  and  went  over  to  the  horses. 

'Or  sell  it?' 

There  was  that  in  the  tone  that  made  Mahbub  halt  and  turn. 
'What  new  devilry?' 

'Eight  annas,  and  I  will  tell,'  said  Kim,  grinning.  'It  touches 
thy  peace.' 

'O  Sultans!'     Mahbub  gave  the  money. 

'Rememberest  thou  the  little  business  of  the  thieves  in  the  dark, 
down  yonder  at  Umballa?' 

'Seeing  they  sought  my  life,  I  have  not  altogether  forgotten. 
Why?' 

'Rememberest  thou  the  Kashmir  Serai?' 

el  will  trust  thy  ears  in  a  moment.' 

'No  need,  Pathan.  Only,  the  second  faquir,  whom  the  Sahibs 
beat  senseless,  was  the  man  who  came  to  search  thy  bulkhead  at 
Lahore.  I  saw  his  face  as  they  helped  him  on  the*  engine.  The 
very  same  man.' 


KIM  179 

'Why  didst  thou  not  tell,  Shaitan?' 

1  Oh,  he  would  go  to  jail  and  be  safe  for  some  years.  There  is 
no  need  to  tell  more  than  is  necessary  at  any  time.  Besides,  I  did 
not  then  need  money  for  sweetmeats.' 

'Allah  kerien!'  said  Mahbub  Ali,  'wilt  thou  some  day  sell  my 
head  for  a  few  sweetmeats  then  if  the  fit  takes  thee?' 


Kim  will  remember  till  he  dies  that  long,  lazy  journey  from 
Umballa,  through  Kalka  and  the  Pinjore  gardens  near  by,  up  to 
Simla.  A  sudden  spate  in  the  Gugger  River  swept  down  one  horse 
(the  most  valuable,  be  sure),  and  nearly  drowned  Kim  among  the 
dancing  boulders.  Farther  up  the  road  the  horses  were  stampeded 
by  a  Government  elephant,  and  being  in  high  condition  of  grass 
food,  it  cost  a  day  and  a  half  to  get  them  together  again.  Then 
they  met  Sikander  Khan  coming  down  with  a  few  unsaleable 
crocks,  —  remnants  of  his  string,  —  and  Mahbub,  who  had  more 
of  horse-coping  in  his  little  finger-nail  than  Sikander  Khan  in  all 
his  tents,  must  needs  buy  two  of  the  worst,  and  that  meant  eight 
hours'  laborious  diplomacy  and  untold  tobacco.  But  it  was  all 
pure  delight  —  the  wandering  road,  climbing,  dipping,  and  sweep- 
ing about  the  growing  spurs;  the  flush  of  the  morning  laid  along 
the  distant  snows;  the  branched  cacti;  tier  upon  tier  the  stony 
hillsides;  the  voices  of  a  thousand  water-channels;  the  chatter  of 
the  monkeys;  the  solemn  deodars,  climbing  one  after  another  with 
down-drooped  branches;  the  vista  of  the  plains  rolled  out  far 
beneath  them;  the  incessant  twanging  of  the  tonga-horns  and  the 
wild  rush  of  the  led  horses  when  a  tonga  swung  round  a  curve;  the 
halts  for  prayers  (Mahbub  was  very  religious  in  dry-washings  and 
bellowings  when  time  did  not  press);  the  evening  conferences  by 


i8o  KIM 

the  halting-places,  when  camels  and  bullocks  chewed  solemnly 
together  and  the  stolid  drivers  told  the  news  of  the  road  —  all 
these  things  lifted  Kim's  heart  to  song  within  him. 

'But,  when  the  singing  and  dancing  is  done,'  said  Mahbub  Ali, 
'comes  the  Colonel  Sahib's,  and  that  is  not  so  sweet.' 

'A  fair  land  —  a  most  beautiful  land  is  this  of  Hind —  and  the 
land  of  the  Five  Rivers  is  fairer  than  all,'  Kim  half  chanted.  'Into 
it  I  will  go  again  if  Mahbub  Ali  or  the  Colonel  lift  hand  or  foot 
against  me.  Once  gone,  who  shall  find  me  ?  Look,  Hajji,  is  yonder 
the  city  of  Simla  pahar.  Allah,  what  a  city!' 

'My  father's  brother,  and  he  was  an  old  man  when  Mackerson 
Sahib's  well  was  new  at  Peshawur,  could  recall  when  there  were 
but  two  houses  in  it.' 

He  led  the  horses  below  the  main  road  into  the  lower  Simla 
bazar  —  the  crowded  rabbit-warren  that  climbs  up  from  the  valley 
to  the  Town  Hall  at  an  angle  of  forty-five.  A  man  who  knows  his 
way  there  can  defy  all  the  police  of  India's  summer  capital,  so 
cunningly  does  verandah  communicate  with  verandah,  alley-way 
with  alley-way,  and  bolt-hole  with  bolt-hole.  Here  live  those  who 
minister  to  the  wants  of  the  city  —  jhampanis  who  pull  the  pretty 
ladies'  rickshaws  by  night  and  gamble  till  the  dawn,  grocers,  oil- 
sellers,  curio-vendors,  fire-wood  dealers,  priests,  pickpockets,  and 
native  employees  of  the  Government;  here  are  discussed  by  cour- 
tesans all  the  things  which  are  supposed  to  be  profoundest  secrets 
of  the  India  Council;  and  here  gather  all  the  sub-sub-agents  of  half 
the  native  States.  Here,  too,  Mahbub  Ali  rented  a  room,  much 
more  securely  locked  than  his  bulkhead  at  Lahore,  in  the  house  of 
a  Mohammedan  cattle-dealer.  It  was  a  place  of  miracles,  too, 
for  there  went  into  it  at  twilight  a  Mohammedan  horse-boy,  and 
there  came  out  an  hour  later,  when  all  Simla  was  wrapped  in  soft 


KIM  181 

rain-mist,  a  Eurasian  lad  —  for  the  Lucknow  girl's  dye  was  of  the 
best  sort  —  in  badly  fitting  shop-clothes. 

'I  have  spoken  with  Creighton  Sahib,'  quoth  Mahbub  Ali,  'and 
a  second  time  has  the  hand  of  friendship  averted  the  whip  of 
calamity.  He  says  that  thou  hast  altogether  wasted  sixty  days 
upon  the  road,  and  it  is  too  late,  therefore,  to  send  thee  to  any 
hill-school.' 

'I  have  said  that  my  holidays  are  my  own.  I  do  not  go  to 
school  twice  over.  That  is  one  part  of  my  bond.' 

'The  Colonel  Sahib  is  not  yet  aware  of  the  contract.  Thou  art 
to  lodge  in  Lurgan  Sahib's  house  till  it  is  time  to  go  again  to  Nuck- 
lao.' 

'I  had  sooner  lodge  with  thee,  Mahbub.' 

'Thou  dost  not  know  the  honour.  Lurgan  Sahib  himself  asked 
for  thee.  Thou  wilt  go  up  the  hill  and  along  the  road  atop,  and 
there  thou  must  forget  for  a  while  that  thou  hast  ever  seen  or 
spoken  to  me,  Mahbub  Ali,  who  sells  horses  to  Creighton  Sahib, 
whom  thou  dost  not  know.  Remember  this  order.' 

Kim  nodded.  'Good,'  said  he,  'and  who  is  Lurgan  Sahib? 
Nay  —  '  he  caught  Mahbub's  sword-keen  glance  —  'indeed  I  have 
never  heard  his  name.  Is  he  by  chance'  —  he  lowered  his  voice 
—  'one  of  us?' 

'What  talk  is  this  of  us,  Sahib?'  Mahbub  Ali  returned,  in  the 
tone  he  used  toward  Europeans.  'I  am  a  Pa  than;  thou  art  a 
Sahib  and  the  son  of  a  Sahib.  Lurgan  Sahib  has  a  shop  among 
the  European  shops.  All  Simla  knows  it.  Ask  there  .  .  . 
and,  Friend  of  all  the  World,  he  is  a  Sahib  to  be  obeyed  to  the  last 
wink  of  his  eye-lashes.  Men  say  he  does  magic,  but  that  should 
not  touch  thee.  Go  up  the  hill  and  ask.  Here  begins  the  great 
game.' 


CHAPTER  IX 

S'doaks  was  son  of  Yelth  the  wise  — 

Chief  of  the  Raven  clan. 
Itswoot  the  Bear  had  him  in  care 

* 

To  make  him  a  medicine-man. 

He  was  quick  and  quicker  to  learn  — 

Bold  and  bolder  to  dare: 
He  danced  the  dread  Kloo-Kwallie  Dance 

To  tickle  Itswoot  the  Bear! 

Oregon  Legend. 

KIM  flung  himself  whole-heartedly  upon  the  next  turn  of  the 
wheel.  He  would  be  a  Sahib  again  for  a  while.  In  that  idea,  as 
soon  as  he  had  reached  the  broad  road  under  Simla  town-hall,  he 
cast  about  for  one  to  impress.  A  Hindu  child,  some  ten  years  old, 
squatted  under  a  lamp-post. 

'Where  is  Mr.  Lurgan's  house?'  demanded  Kim. 

'I  do  not  understand  English,'  was  the  answer,  and  Kim  shifted 
his  speech  accordingly. 

'I  will  show.' 

Together  they  set  off  through  the  mysterious  dusk,  full  of  the 
noises  of  a  city  below  the  hillside,  and  the  breath  of  a  cool  wind  in 
deodar-crowned  Jakko,  shouldering  the  stars.  The  house-lights, 
scattered  on  every  level,  made,  as  it  were,  a  double  firmament. 
Some  were  fixed,  others  belonged  to  the  rickshaws  of  careless,  open- 
spoken  English  folk,  going  out  to  dinner . 

'It  is  here,'  said  Kim's  guide,  and  halted  in  a  verandah  flush  with 

182 


KIM  183 

the  main  road.  No  door  stayed  them,  but  a  curtain  of  beaded 
reeds  that  split  up  the  lamp-light  beyond. 

'He  is  come,'  said  the  boy,  in  a  voice  little  louder  than  a  sigh, 
and  vanished.  Kim  felt  sure  that  the  boy  had  been  posted  to 
guide  him  from  the  first,  but  putting  a  bold  face  on  it,  parted  the 
curtain.  A  black-bearded  man  with  a  green  shade  over  his  eyes, 
sat  at  a  table,  and,  one  by  one,  with  short,  white  hands,  picked 
up  globules  of  light  from  a  tray  before  him,  threaded  them  on  a 
glancing  silken  string  and  hummed  to  himself  the  while.  Kim  was 
conscious  that  beyond  the  circle  of  light  the  room  was  full  of  things 
that  smelt  like  all  the  temples  of  all  the  East.  A  whiff  of  musk,  a 
puff  of  sandal-wood,  and  a  breath  of  sickly  jessamine-oil  caught  his 
opened  nostrils. 

'I  am  here,'  said  Kim  at  last,  speaking  in  the  vernacular  —  for 
the  smells  made  him  forget  that  he  was  going  to  be  a  Sahib  hence- 
forward. 

'Seventy-nine,  eighty,  eighty-one,'  the  man  counted  to  himself, 
stringing  pearl  after  pearl  so  quickly  that  Kim  could  scarcely  follow 
his  fingers.  He  slid  off  the  green  shade  and  looked  intently  at  Kim 
for  a  full  half-minute.  The  pupils  of  the  eye  dilated  and  closed  to 
pin-pricks,  as  if  at  will.  .There  was  a  faquir  by  the  Taksali  Gate 
who  had  just  this  gift  and  made  money  by  it,  especially  when  curs- 
ing silly  women.  Kim  stared  intently.  His  disreputable  friend 
could  further  twitch  his  ears,  almost  like  a  goat,  and  Kim  was  dis- 
appointed that  this  new  man  did  not  imitate  him. 

'Do  not  be  afraid,'  said  Mr.  Lurgan  suddenly. 

'Why  should  I  fear?' 

'Thou  wilt  sleep  here  to-night,  and  stay  with  me  till  it  is  time  to 
go  again  to  Nucklao.  It  is  an  order.' 

'It  is  an  order,'  Kim  repeated.     'But  where  shall  I  sleep?' 


1 84  KIM 

'Here  in  this  room/  Lurgan  Sahib  waved  his  hand  toward  the 
darkness  behind  him. 

1  So  be  it,'  said  Kim  composedly.     'Now?' 

He  nodded  and  held  the  lamp  above  his  head.  As  the  light 
swept  them,  there  leaped  out  from  the  walls  a  collection  of  Tibe- 
tan devil-dance  masks,  hanging  above  the  fiend-embroidered 
draperies  of  those  ghastly  functions  —  horned  masks,  scowling 
masks,  and  masks  of  idiotic  terror.  In  a  corner,  a  Japanese  war- 
rior, mailed  and  plumed,  menaced  him  with  a  halberd,  and  a  score 
of  lances  and  khandas  and  kuttars  gave  back  the  unsteady  gleam. 
But  what  interested  Kim  more  than  all  these  things  —  he  had 
seen  devil-dance  masks  at  the  Lahore  Museum  —  was  a  glimpse 
of  the  soft-eyed  Hindu  child  who  had  left  him  in  the  doorway, 
sitting  cross-legged  under  the  table  of  pearls  with  a  little  smile  on 
his  scarlet  lips. 

'I  think  that  Lurgan  Sahib  wishes  to  make  me  afraid.  And  I 
am  sure  that  the  devil's  brat  below  the  table  wished  to  see  me 
afraid.  This  place,'  he  said  aloud,  'is  like  a  wonder-house.  Where 
is  my  bed?' 

Lurgan  Sahib  pointed  to  a  native  quilt  in  a  corner  by  the  loath- 
some masks,  picked  up  the  lamp,  and  left  the  room  in  black  dark- 
ness. 

'Was  that  Lurgan  Sahib?'  Kim  asked  as  he  cuddled  down.  No 
answer.  He  could  hear  the  Hindu  boy  breathing,  however,  and, 
guided  by  the  sound,  crawled  across  the  floor,  and  cuffed  into  the 
darkness,  crying:  'Give  answer,  devil.  Is  this  the  way  to  lie  to  a 
Sahib?' 

From  the  darkness  he  fancied  he  could  hear  the  echo  of  a  chuckle. 
It  could  not  be  his  soft-fleshed  companion,  because  he  was  weeping. 
So  Kim  lifted  up  his  voice  and  called  aloud:  'Lurgan  Sahib,  O 


KIM  185 

Lurgan  Sahib !  Is  it  an  order  that  thy  servant  does  not  speak  to 
me?' 

'It  is  an  order.'  The  voice  came  from  behind  him  and  he 
started. 

'Very  good.  But  remember,'  he  muttered,  as  he  resought  the 
quilt,  'I  will  beat  thee  in  the  morning.  I  do  not  like  Hindus.' 

That  was  no  cheerful  night;  the  room  being  overful  of  voices  and 
music.  Kim  was  waked  twice  by  some  one  calling  his  name.  The 
second  time  he  set  out  in  search,  and  ended  by  bruising  his  nose 
against  a  box  that  certainly  spoke  with  a  human  tongue,  but  in  no 
sort  of  human  accent.  It  seemed  to  end  in  a  tin  trumpet  and  to 
be  joined  by  wires  to  a  smaller  box  on  the  floor  —  so  far,  at  least, 
as  he  could  judge  by  touch.  And  the  voice,  very  hard  and  whir- 
ring, came  out  of  the  trumpet,  singing.  '  Taza  ba  tara  nao  benao.' 
Kim  rubbed  his  nose  and  grew  furious,  thinking,  as  usual,  in  Hind. 

'This  with  a  beggar  from  the  bazar  might  be  good  but  —  I  am 
a  Sahib  and  the  son  of  a  Sahib  and,  which  is  twice  as  much  more 
beside,  a  student  of  Lucknao.  Yess'  (here  he  turned  to  English), 
'a  boy  of  St.  Xavier's.  Damn  Mr.  Lurgan's  eyes!  —  It  is  some 
sort  of  machinery  like  a  sewing-machine.  Oh,  it  is  great  cheek  of 
him  —  we  are  not  frightened  that  way  in  Lucknow  —  No.'  Then 
in  Hindi:  'But  what  does  he  gain?  He  is  only  a  trader  —  I  am 
in  his  shop.  But  Creighton  Sahib  is  a  Colonel  —  and  I  think 
Creighton  Sahib  gave  orders  that  it  should  be  done.  How  I  will 
beat  that  Hindu  bastard  in  the  morning.  What  is  this  ?' 

The  trumpet-box  was  pouring  out  a  string  of  the  most  elaborate 
abuse  that  even  Kim  had  ever  heard,  in  a  level  uninterested  voice, 
that  for  a  moment  lifted  the  short  hairs  in  his  neck.  When  the 
vile  thing  drew  breath,  Kim  was  reassured  by  the  soft,  sewing- 
machine-like  whirr. 


1 86  KIM 

'Chupr  (be  still)  he  cried,  and  again  he  heard  a  chuckle,  that 
decided  him.  'Chup  —  or  I  break  your  head.' 

The  box  took  no  heed.  Kim  wrenched  at  the  tin  trumpet  and 
something  lifted  with  a  click.  He  had  evidently  raised  a  lid.  If 
there  were  a  devil  inside,  now  was  its  time  for  —  he  sniffed  —  thus 
did  the  sewing-machines  of  the  bazar  smell.  He  would  clean  that 
shaitan.  He  slipped  off  his  jacket,  and  plunged  it  into  the  box's 
mouth.  Something  long  and  round  bent  under  the  pressure,  there 
was  a  whirr  and  the  voice  stopped  —  as  voices  must  if  you  ram  a 
thrice-doubled  coat  on  to  the  wax  cylinder  and  into  the  works  of 
an  expensive  phonograph.  Kim  finished  his  slumbers  with  a  se- 
rene mind. 

In  the  morning  he  was  aware  of  Lurgan  Sahib  looking  down  on 
him. 

'Oah!'  said  Kim,  firmly  resolved  to  cling  to  his  Sahib-dom. 
'There  was  a  box  in  the  night  that  gave  me  gall.  So  I  stopped  it. 
Was  it  your  box?' 

The  man  held  out  his  hand. 

'Shake  hands,  O'Hara,'  he  said.  'Yes,  it  was  my  box.  I  keep 
such  things  because  my  friends  the  Rajahs  like  them.  That  one 
is  broken,  but  it  was  cheap  at  the  price.  Yes,  my  friends,  the  Kings, 
are  very  fond  of  toys  —  and  so  am  I  sometimes.' 

Kim  looked  at  him  out  of  the  corners  of  his  eyes.  He  was  a 
Sahib  in  that  he  wore  Sahib's  clothes;  the  accent  of  his  Urdu,  the 
intonation  of  his  English,  showed  that  he  was  anything  but  a  Sahib. 
He  seemed  to  understand  what  moved  in  Kim's  mind  ere  the  boy 
opened  his  mouth,  and  he  took  no  pains  to  explain  himself  as 
Father  Victor  or  the  Lucknow  masters  did.  Sweetest  of  all  — 
sweeter  than  the  pilau  —  he  treated  Kim  as  an  equal  on  the 
Asiatic  side. 


KIM  187 

'I  am  sorry  you  cannot  beat  my  boy  this  morning.  He  says  he 
will  kill  you  with  a  knife  or  poison.  He  is  jealous,  so  I  have  put 
him  in  the  corner  and  I  shall  not  speak  to  him  to-day.  He  has 
just  tried  to  kill  me.  You  must  help  me  with  the  jewels.  He  is 
almost  too  jealous  to  trust,  just  now.' 

Now  a  genuine  imported  Sahib  from  England  would  have  made 
a  great  to  do  over  this  tale.  Lurgan  Sahib  stated  it  as  simply  as 
Mahbub  Ali  recorded  his  little  doings  in  the  North. 

The  black  verandah  of  the  shop  was  built  out  over  the  sheer  hill- 
side, and  they  looked  down  into  their  neighbours'  chimney-pots, 
as  is  the  custom  of  Simla.  But  even  more  than  the  purely  Persian 
meal  cooked  by  Lurgan  Sahib  with  his  own  hands,  the  shop  fasci- 
nated Kim.  The  Lahore  Museum  was  larger,  but  here  were  more 
wonders  —  ghost-daggers  and  prayer-wheels  from  Tibet;  turquoise 
and  raw  amber  necklaces;  green  jade  bangles;  curiously  packed  in- 

t 

cense-sticks  in  jars  crusted  over  with  raw  garnets;  the  devil-masks 
of  overnight  and  a  wall  full  of  peacock-blue  draperies;  gilt  figures 
of  Buddha,  and  little  portable  altars  of  lacquer;  Russian  samovars 
with  turquoises  on  the  lid;  egg-shell  china  sets  in  quaint  octagonal 
cane  boxes;  yellow  ivory  crucifixes  —  from  Japan  of  all  places  in 
the  world,  so  Lurgan  Sahib  said;  carpets  in  dusty  bales,  smelling 
atrociously,  pushed  back  behind  torn  and  rotten  screens  of  geo- 
metrical work;  Persian  water-jugs  for  the  hands  after  meals;  dull 
copper  incense-burners  neither  Chinese  nor  Persian,  with  friezes 
of  fantastic  devils  running  round  them;  tarnished  silver  belts  that 
knotted  like  raw  hide;  hair-pins  of  jade,  ivory,  and  plasma;  arms 
of  all  sorts  and  kinds,  and  a  thousand  other  oddments  were  cased 
or  piled,  or  merely  thrown  into  the  room,  leaving  a  clear  space  only 
round  the  rickety  deal  table,  where  Lurgan  Sahib  worked. 

'Those  things  are  nothing,'  said  his  host,  watching  Kim's  ad- 


188  KIM 

miring  eye.  'I  buy  them  because  they  are  pretty,  and  sometimes 
I  sell  —  if  I  like  the  buyer's  look.  My  work  is  on  the  table  — 
some  of  it.' 

It  blazed  in  the  morning  light  —  all  red  and  blue  and  green 
flashes,  picked  out  with  the  vicious  blue-white  spurt  of  a  diamond 
here  and  there.  Kim  opened  his  eyes. 

'Oh,  they  are  quite  well,  those  stones.  It  will  not  hurt  them  to 
see  the  sun.  Besides,  they  are  cheap.  But  with  sick  stones  it  is 
very  different.'  He  piled  Kim's  plate  anew.  'There  is  no  one  but 
me  can  doctor  a  sick  pearl  and  re-blue  turquoises.  I  grant  you 
opals  —  any  fool  can  cure  an  opal  -  -  but  for  a  sick  pearl  there  is 
only  me.  Suppose  I  were  to  die!  Then  there  would  be  no  one. 
.  .  .  Oh  no!  You  cannot  do  anything  with  jewels.  It  will  be 
quite  enough  if  you  understand  a  little  about  turquoises  —  some 
day.' 

He  moved  to  the  end  of  the  verandah  to  refill  the  heavy,  porous 
clay  water-jug  from  the  filter. 

'Do  you  want  drink?' 

Kim  nodded.  Lurgan  Sahib,  fifteen  feet  away,  laid  one  hand  on 
the  jar.  Next  instant  it  stood  at  Kim's  elbow,  full  to  within  half 
an  inch  of  the  brim  —  the  white  cloth  only  showing,  by  a  small 
wrinkle,  that  it  had  slid  into  its  place. 

'Wah!'  said  Kim  in  most  utter  amazement.  'That  is  magic.' 
Lurgan  Sahib's  smile  showed  that  the  compliment  had  gone  home. 

'Throw  it  back.' 

'It  will  break.' 

'I  say,  throw  it  back.* 

Kim  grasped  it  by  the  neck  and  pitched  it  at  random.  It  fell 
short  and  crashed  into  fifty  pieces,  while  the  water  dripped  through 
the  rough  verandah  boarding. 


K  I  M  189 

'I  said  it  would  break.' 

'All  one.     Look  at  it.     Look  at  the  largest  piece.' 

That  lay  with  a  sparkle  of  water  in  its  curve,  as  it  were  a  star 
on  the  floor.  Kim  looked  intently;  Lurgan  Sahib  laid  one  hand 
gently  on  the  nape  of  his  neck,  stroked  it  twice  or  thrice,  and  whis- 
pered: 'Look.  It  shall  come  to  life  again,  piece  by  piece.  First 
the  big  piece  shall  join  itself  to  two  others  on  the  right  and  the  left 
—  on  the  right  and  the  left.  Look!' 

To  save  his  life,  Kim  could  not  have  turned  his  head.  The 
light  touch  held  him  as  in  a  vise,  and  his  blood  tingled  pleasantly 
through  him.  There  was  one  large  piece  of  the  jar  where  there  had 
been  three,  and  above  them  the  shadowy  outline  of  the  entire 
vessel.  He  could  see  the  verandah  through  it,  but  it  was  thick- 
ening and  darkening  with  each  beat  of  his  pulse.  Yet  the  jar  — 
how  slowly  the  thoughts  came!  —  the  jar  had  been  smashed  before 
his  eyes.  Another  wave  of  prickling  fire  raced  down  his  neck,  as 
Lurgan  Sahib  moved  his  hand. 

'Look!     It  is  coming  into  shape,'  said  Lurgan  Sahib. 

So  far  Kim  had  been  thinking  in  Hindi,  but  a  tremor  came  on 
him,  and  with  an  effort  like  that  of  a  swimmer  before  sharks,  who 
hurls  himself  half  out  of  the  water,  his  mind  leaped  up  from  a  dark- 
ness that  was  swallowing  it  and  took  refuge  in  —  the  multiplica- 
tion table  in  English! 

'Look!     It  is  coming  into  shape,'  whispered  Lurgan  Sahib. 

The  jar  had  been  smashed  —  yess,  smashed  —  not  the  native 
word,  he  would  not  think  of  that  —  but  smashed  —  into  fifty 
pieces,  and  twice  three  was  six,  and  thrice  three  was  nine,  and  four 
times  three  was  twelve.  He  clung  desperately  to  the  repetition. 
The  shadow-outline  of  the  jar  cleared  like  a  mist  after  rubbing 
eyes.  There  were  the  broken  shards;  there  was  the  spilt  water 


190  KIM 

drying  in  the  sun,  and  through  the  cracks  of  the  verandah  showed, 
all  ribbed,  the  white  house-wall  below  —  and  thrice  twelve  was 
thirty-six! 

'Look!     Is  it  coming  into  shape?'  asked  Lurgan  Sahib. 

'But  it  is  smashed  —  smashed/  he  gasped  —  Lurgan  Sahib  had 
been  muttering  softly  for  the  last  half-minute.  Kim  wrenched 
his  head  aside.  'Look!  Dekko!  It  is  there  as  it  was  there.' 

'It  is  there  as  it  was  there,'  said  Lurgan,  watching  Kim  closely 
while  the  boy  rubbed  his  neck.  'But  you  are  the  first  of  a  many 
who  have  ever  seen  it  so.'  He  wiped  his  broad  forehead. 

'Was  that  more  magic?'  Kim  asked  suspiciously.  The  tingle 
had  gone  from  his  blood;  he  felt  unusually  wide  awake. 

'No,  that  was  not  magic.  It  was  only  to  see  if  there  was  a  flaw 
in  a  jewel.  Remember  when  any  man  asks  you  to  look  close  at 
anything  and  waves  his  hand  —  so!  —  you  must  not  do  it.  But' 

-  he  went  on  to  himself  —  'it  is  very  curious  that  he  should  have 
saved  himself.  Tell  me,  did  you  see  the  shape  of  the  pot?' 

'For  a  little  time.  It  began  to  grow  like  a  flower  from  the 
ground.' 

'And  then  what  did  you  do?     I  mean,  how  did  you  think?' 

'Oah!  I  knew  it  was  broken,  and  so  I  think  that  was  what  I 
thought  -  -  and  it  was  broken.' 

'H'm!  Has  any  one  ever  done  that  same  sort  of  magic  to  you 
before  ? ' 

'If  it  was,'  said  Kim,  'do  you  think  I  should  let  it  again?  I 
should  run  away.' 

'And  now  you  are  not  afraid  —  eh?' 

'No.' 

Lurgan  Sahib  looked  at  him  more  closely  than  ever.  'I  shall 
ask  Mahbub  AH  —  not  now,  but  some  day  later,'  he  muttered. 


KIM  191 

'I  am  pleased  with  you  —  yes;  and  I  am  pleased  with  you  —  no. 
You  are  the  first  that  ever  saved  himself.  I  wish  I  knew  what  it 
was  that  you  began  to  think.  .  .  .  But  you  are  right.  You 
should  not  tell  that  —  not  even  to  me.' 

He  turned  into  the  dusky  gloom  of  the  shop,  and  sat  down  at 
the  table  rubbing  his  hands  softly.  A  small,  husky  sob  came  from 
behind  a  pile  of  carpets.  It  was  the  Hindu  child  obediently  facing 
towards  the  wall.  His  slim  shoulders  worked  with  grief. 

4  Ah !  He  is  jealous,  so  jealous.  I  wonder  if  he  will  try  to  poison 
me  again  in  my  breakfast,  and  make  me  cook  it  twice.' 

*  Kubbee  —  kubbee  nahin^  came  the  broken  answer. 

'And  whether  he  will  kill  this  other  boy?' 

1  Kubbee  —  kubbee  nahin1  (never  —  never.     No !) 

'What  do  you  think  he  will  do?'     He  turned  suddenly  on  Kim. 

'Oah !  I  do  not  know.  Let  him  go,  perhaps.  Why  did  he  want 
to  poison  you?' 

'Because  he  is  so  fond  of  me.  Suppose  you  were  fond  of  some 
one,  and  you  saw  some  one  come,  and  the  man  you  were  fond  of  was 
more  pleased  with  him  than  he  was  with  you,  what  would  you  do?' 

Kim  thought.  Lurgan  repeated  the  sentence  slowly  in  the  ver- 
nacular. 

'I  should  not  poison  that  man,'  said  Kim  reflectively,  'but  I 
should  beat  that  boy  —  if  that  boy  was  fond  of  my  man.  But 
first  I  would  ask  that  boy  if  it  were  true.' 

'Ah !     He  thinks  every  one  must  be  fond  of  me.' 

'Then  I  think  he  is  a  fool.' 

'Hearest  thou?'  said  Lurgan  Sahib  to  the  shaking  shoulders. 
'The  Sahib's  son  thinks  thou  art  a  little  fool.  Come  out,  and  next 
time  thy  heart  is  troubled,  do  not  try  white  arsenic  quite  so  openly. 
Surely  the  Devil  Dasim  was  lord  of  the  table-cloth  that  day!  It 


i92  KIM 

might  have  made  me  ill,  child,  and  then  a  stranger  would  have 
guarded  the  jewels.  Come!' 

The  child,  heavy-eyed  with  much  weeping,  crept  out  from  be- 
hind the  bale  and  flung  himself  passionately  at  Lurgan  Sahib's 
feet,  with  an  extravagance  of  remorse  that  impressed  even  Kim. 

1 1  will  look  into  the  ink-pools  —  I  will  faithfully  guard  the  jewels. 
Oh,  my  father  and  my  mother,  send  him  away.'  He  indicated 
Kim  with  a  backward  jerk  of  his  bare  heel. 

'Not  yet  —  not  yet.  In  a  little  while  he  will  go  away  again. 
But  now  he  is  at  school  —  at  a  new  madrissah  —  and  thou  shalt  be 
his  teacher.  Play  the  play  of  the  jewels  against  him.  I  will  keep 
tally.' 

The  child  dried  his  tears  at  once,  and  dashed  to  the  back  of  the 
shop,  whence  he  returned  with  a  copper  tray. 

'Give  me!'  he  said  to  Lurgan  Sahib.  'Let  them  come  from  thy 
hand,  for  he  may  say  that  I  knew  them  before.' 

'Gently  —  gently,'  the  man  replied,  and  from  a  drawer  under  the 
table  dealt  a  half  handful  of  clattering  trifles  into  the  tray. 

'Now,'  said  the  child,  waving  an  old  copy  of  a  paper.  'Look  on 
them  as  long  as  thou  wilt,  stranger.  Count  and,  if  need  be,  handle. 
One  look  is  enough  for  me.1  He  turned  his  back  proudly. 

'But  what  is  the  game?'  Kim  asked. 

'When  thou  hast  counted  and  handled  and  art  sure  that  thou 
canst  remember  them  all,  I  cover  them  with  this  paper,  and  thou 
must  tell  over  the  tally  to  Lurgan  Sahib.  I  will  write  mine.' 

'Oah!'  The  instinct  of  competition  waked  in  his  breast.  He 
bent  over  the  tray.  There  were  but  fifteen  stones  on  it.  'That  is 
easy,'  he  said  after  a  minute.  The  child  slipped  the  paper  over  the 
winking  jewels  and  scribbled  in  a  limp-backed  native  account- 
book. 


KIM  193 

'There  are  under  that  paper  five  blue  stones  —  one  big,  one 
smaller,  and  three  small,'  said  Kim,  all  in  haste.  'There  are  four 
green  stones,  and  one  with  a  hole  in  it;  there  is  one  yellow  stone  that 
I  can  see  through,  and  one  like  a  pipe-stem.  There  are  two  red 
stones,  and  —  and  —  I  made  the  count  fifteen,  but  two  I  have  for- 
gotten. No!  Give  me  time.  One  was  of  ivory,  little  and  brown- 
ish; and  —  and  —  give  me  time.  .  .  .' 

'One  —  two'  —  Lurgan  Sahib  counted  him  out  up  to  ten.  Kim 
shook  his  head. 

'Hear  my  count,'  the  child  burst  in,  trilling  with  laughter. 
'  First,  are  two  flawed  sapphires  —  one  of  two  ruttees  and  one  of 
four  as  I  should  judge.  The  four-ruttee  sapphire  is  chipped  at  the 
edge.  There  is  one  Turkestan  turquoise,  plain  with  green  veins, 
and  there  are  two  inscribed  —  one  with  a  Name  of  God  in  gilt,  and 
the  other  being  cracked  across,  for  it  came  out  of  an  old  ring,  I 
cannot  read.  We  have  now  the  five  blue  stones.  Four  flawed 
emeralds  there  are,  but  one  is  drilled  in  two  places,  and  one  is  a 
little  carven ' 

'Their  weight?'  said  Lurgan  Sahib  impassively. 

*  Three  —  five  —  five  and  four  ruttees  as  I  judge  it.  There  is 
one  piece  of  old  greenish  amber,  and  a  cheap  cut  topaz  from 
Europe.  There  is  one  ruby  of  Burma,  of  two  ruttees,  without  a 
flaw,  and  there  is  a  ballas  ruby,  flawed,  of  two  ruttees.  There  is  a 
carved  ivory  from  China  representing  a  rat  sucking  an  egg;  and 
there  is  last  —  ah  ha!  —  a  ball  of  crystal  as  big  as  a  bean  set  in  a 
gold  leaf.' 

He  clapped  his  hands  at  the  close. 

'He  is  thy  master/  said  Lurgan  Sahib,  smiling. 

'Huh!  He  knew  the  names  of  the  stones,'  said  Kim,  flushing. 
'Try  again!  With  common  things  such  as  he  and  I  both  know.' 


194  KIM 

They  heaped  the  tray  again  with  odds  and  ends  gathered  from 
the  shop,  and  even  the  kitchen,  and  every  time  the  boy  won,  till 
Kim  marvelled. 

'Bind  my  eyes  —  let  me  feel  once  with  my  fingers,  and  even 
then  I  will  leave  thee  open-eyed  behind,'  he  challenged. 

Kim  stamped  with  vexation  when  the  lad  made  his  boast  good. 

1  If  it  were  men  —  or  horses,'  he  said,  'I  could  do  better.  This 
playing  with  tweezers  and  knives  and  scissors  is  too  little.' 

'Learn  first  —  teach  later,'  said  Lurgan  Sahib.  'Is  he  thy 
master?' 

'Truly.     But  how  is  it  done?' 

'  By  doing  it  many  times  over  till  it  is  done  perfectly  —  for  it  is 
worth  doing.' 

The  Hindu  boy  in  highest  feather  actually  patted  Kim  on  the 
back. 

'Do  not  despair,'  he  said.     'I  myself  will  teach  thee.' 

'And  I  will  see  that  thou  art  well  taught,'  said  Lurgan  Sahib, 
still  speaking  in  the  vernacular,  'for  except  my  boy  here  —  it  was 
foolish  of  thee  to  buy  so  much  white  arsenic  when,  if  thou  hadst 
asked,  I  could  have  given  it  to  thee  —  except  my  boy  here  I  have 
not  in  a  long  time  met  with  one  better  worth  teaching.  And  there 
are  ten  days  more  ere  thou  canst  return  to  Lucknao  —  where  they 
teach  nothing  at  a  long  price.  We  shall,  I  think,  be  friends.' 

They  were  a  most  mad  ten  days,  but  Kim  enjoyed  himself  too 
much  to  reflect  on  their  craziness.  In  the  morning  they  played 
the  'jewel  game'  —  sometimes  with  veritable  stones,  sometimes 
with  piles  of  swords  and  daggers,  sometimes  with  photographs  (in 
this  event  Kim  won).  Through  the  afternoons  he  and  the  Hindu 
boy  would  mount  guard  in  the  shop,  sitting  dumb  behind  a  carpet 
bale  or  a  screen  and  watching  the  many  and  very  curious  visitors 


KIM  195 

who  came  to  buy  curiosities.  There  were  small  Rajahs,  their 
escorts  coughing  in  the  verandah,  who  came  to  buy  curiosities  — 
phonographs  and  French  mechanical  toys.  There  were  ladies  in 
search  of  necklaces,  and  men,  it  seemed  to  Kim  —  but  his  mind 
may  have  been  vitiated  by  early  training  —  in  search  of  the  ladies; 
natives  from  independent  and  feudatory  courts  whose  ostensible 
business  was  the  repair  of  broken  necklaces  —  rivers  of  light  poured 
out  upon  the  table  —  but  whose  real  end  seemed  to  be  to  raise 
money  for  angry  Maharanees  or  young  Rajahs.  There  were  Babus 
to  whom  Lurgan  Sahib  talked  with  austerity  and  authority,  but 
at  the  end  of  each  interview  he  gave  them  money  in  coined  silver 
and  currency  notes.  There  were  occasional  gatherings  of  long- 
coated  theatrical  natives  who  talked  metaphysics  in  English  and 
Bengali,  to  Mr.  Lurgan's  great  edification.  He  was  always  in- 
terested in  religion.  At  the  end  of  the  day,  Kim  and  the  Hindu 
boy  —  whose  name  varied  at  Lurgan's  pleasure  —  were  expected 
to  give  a  detailed  account  of  all  that  they  had  seen  and  heard  — 
their  view  of  each  man's  character,  as  shown  in  his  face,  talk,  and 
manner,  and  their  notions  of  his  real  business.  After  dinner,  Lur- 
gan Sahib's  fancy  turned  more  to  what  might  be  called  dressing- 
up,  in  which  game  he  took  the  most  informing  interest.  He  could 
paint  faces  to  a  marvel;  with  a  brush-dab  here  and  a  line  there 
changing  them  past  recognition.  The  shop  was  full  of  all  manner 
of  dresses  and  turbans,  and  Kim  was  apparelled  variously  as  a  young 
Mohammedan  of  good  family,  an  oilman,  and  once  —  which  was 
a  joyous  evening  —  as  the  son  of  an  Oudh  landholder  in  the  fullest 
of  full  dress.  Lurgan  Sahib  had  a  hawk's  eye  to  detect  the  least 
flaw  in  the  make-up;  and  lying  on  a  warm  teak-wood  couch,  would 
explain  by  the  half  hour  together  how  such  and  such  a  caste  talked, 
or  walked,  or  coughed,  or  spat,  or  sneezed,  and  since  'hows'  matter 


196  KIM 

little  in  this  world,  the  'why'  of  everything.  The  Hindu  boy 
played  this  game  clumsily.  The  little  mind,  keen  as  an  icicle 
where  tally  of  jewels  was  concerned,  could  not  temper  itself  to 
enter  into  another's  soul;  but  there  was  that  in  Kim  which  woke 
up  and  sang  with  joy  as  he  put  on  the  changing  dresses,  and  changed 
his  speech  and  gesture  therewith. 

Carried  away  by  enthusiasm,  he  volunteered  to  show  Lurgan 
Sahib  one  evening  how  the  disciples  of  a  certain  caste  of  faquir, 
old  Lahore  acquaintances,  begged  doles  by  the  roadside,  and  what 
sort  of  language  he  would  use  to  an  Englishman,  to  a  Punjabi 
farmer  going  to  a  fair,  and  to  a  woman  without  a  veil.  Lurgan 
Sahib  laughed  immensely,  and  begged  Kim  to  stay  as  he  was,  im- 
mobile for  half  an  hour  —  cross-legged,  ash-smeared,  and  wild- 
eyed,  in  the  back  room.  At  the  end  of  that  time  entered  a  hulking, 
obese  Babu  whose  stockinged  legs  shook  with  fat,  and  Kim  hailed 
him  with  a  shower  of  wayside  chaff.  Lurgan  Sahib  —  this  an- 
noyed him  —  watched  the  Babu  and  not  the  play. 

'I  think,'  said  the  Babu  heavily,  lighting  a  cigarette,  'I  am  of 
opeenion  that  it  is  most  extraordinary  and  effeecient  performance. 
Except  that  you  had  told  me  I  should  have  opined  that  —  that 
you  were  pulling  my  legs.  How  soon  can  he  become  approxi- 
mately effeecient  chainman?  Because  then  I  shall  indent  for  him.' 

'That  is  what  he  must  learn  at  Lucknow.' 

'Then  order  him  to  be  jolly  damn  quick.  Good-night,  Lurgan.7 
The  Babu  swung  out  with  the  gait  of  a  bagged  cow. 

When  they  were  telling  over  the  day's  list  of  visitors,  Lurgan 
Sahib  asked  Kim  who  he  thought  the  Babu  might  be. 

'God  knows,'  said  Kim  cheerily.  The  tone  might  almost  have 
deceived  Mahbub  AH,  but  it  failed  entirely  with  the  healer  of  sick 
pearls. 


KIM  197 

'That  is  true.  God,  He  knows;  but  I  wish  to  know  what  you 
think.' 

Kim  glanced  sideways  at  his  companion,  whose  eye  had  a  way 
of  compelling  truth. 

'I  —  I  think  he  will  want  me  when  I  come  from  the  school,  but' 

—  confidentially,  as  Lurgan  Sahib  nodded  approval  —  'I  do  not 
understand  how  he  can  wear  many  dresses  and  talk  many  tongues.' 

'Thou  wilt  understand  many  things  later.  He  is  a  writer  of  tales 
for  a  certain  Colonel.  His  honour  is  great  only  in  Simla,  and  it  is 
noticeable  that  he  has  no  name,  but  only  a  number  and  a  letter  — 
that  is  the  custom.' 

'And  is  there  a  price  upon  his  head  too  —  as  upon  all  the 
others  ? ' 

'Not  yet;  but  if  a  boy  rose  up  who  is  now  sitting  here  and  went 

—  look,  the  door  is  open  —  as  far  as  a  certain  house  with  a  red- 
painted  verandah,  behind  that  which  was  the  old  theatre  in  the 
Lower   Bazar,    and   whispered   through    the   shutters:     "Hurree 
Chunder  Mookerjee  bore  the  bad  news  of  last  month,"  that  boy 
might  take  away  a  belt  full  of  silver.' 

'How  many?'  said  Kim  promptly. 

'Five  hundred  —  a  thousand  —  as  many  as  he  might  ask  for.' 

'Good.  And  how  long  might  such  a  boy  live  after  the  news  was 
told?'  He  smiled  merrily  at  Lurgan  Sahib's  very  beard. 

'Ah!  That  is  to  be  well  thought  of.  Perhaps  if  he  were  very 
clever,  he  might  live  out  the  day  —  but  not  the  night.  By  no 
means  the  night.' 

'Then  what  is  the  Babu's  pay  for  his  work  if  so  much  is  put  upon 
his  life?' 

'Eighty  —  perhaps  a  hundred  —  perhaps  a  hundred  and  fifty 
rupees;  but  the  pay  is  the  least  part  of  the  work.  From  time  to 


i98  KIM 

time,  God  causes  men  to  be  born  —  and  thou  art  one  of  them  — 
who  have  a  lust  to  go  abroad  at  the  risk  of  their  lives  and  discover 
news  —  to-day  it  may  be  of  far-off  things,  to-morrow  of  some  hid- 
den mountain,  and  the  next  day  of  some  near-by  man  who  has  done 
a  foolishness  against  the  State.  These  men  are  very  few;  and  of 
these  few,  not  more  than  ten  are  of  the  best.  Among  these  ten  I 
count  the  Babu,  and  that  is  curious.  How  great  therefore  and 
desirable  must  be  a  business  that  changes  the  heart  of  a  Bengali.' 

'True.  But  the  days  go  slowly  for  me.  I  am  yet  a  boy,  and  it 
is  only  within  two  months  I  learned  to  write  Angrezi.  Even  now 
I  cannot  read  it  well.  And  there  are  yet  years  and  years  and  long 
years  before  I  can  be  even  a  chainman.' 

'Have  patience,  Friend  of  all  the  World,'  —  Kim  started  at  the 
title.  'I  would  I  had  a  few  of  the  years  that  so  irk  thee.  I  have 
proved  thee  in  several  small  ways.  This  will  not  be  forgotten  when 
I  make  my  report  to  the  Colonel  Sahib.'  Then,  changing  sud- 
denly into  English  with  a  deep  laugh  — 

'By  Jove!  O'Hara,  I  think  there  is  a  great  deal  in  you;  but  you 
must  not  become  proud  and  you  must  not  talk.  You  must  go 
back  to  Lucknow  and  be  a  good  little  boy  and  mind  your  book,  as 
the  English  say,  and  perhaps,  next  holidays  if  you  care,  you  can 
come  back  to  me!'  Kim's  face  fell.  'Oh,  I  mean  if  you  like.  I 
know  where  you  want  to  go.' 

Four  days  later  a  seat  was  booked  for  Kim  and  his  small  trunk 
at  the  rear  of  a  Kalka  tonga.  His  companion  was  the  whale-like 
Babu,  who,  with  a  fringed  shawl  wrapped  round  his  head,  and  his 
fat  open-worked  stockinged  left  leg  tucked  under  him,  shivered  and 
grunted  in  the  morning  chill. 

'How  comes  it  that  this  man  is  one  of  usV  thought  Kim,  con- 
sidering the  jelly-back  as  they  jolted  down  the  road;  and  the 


KIM  199 

reflection  threw  him  into  most  pleasant  day-dreams.  Lurgan 
Sahib  had  given  him  five  rupees  —  an  enormous  sum  —  as  well  as 
the  assurance  of  his  protection  if  he  worked.  The  indoor  life  (and 
never  did  a  visitor  see  less  of  Simla  in  a  ten  days'  visit)  had  preyed 
upon  him,  and  he  yearned  for  the  open  road.  If  only,  like  the 
Babu,  he  could  enjoy  the  dignity  of  a  letter  and  a  number  —  and  a 
price  upon  his  head!  Some  day  he  would  be  all  that  and  more. 
Some  day  he  might  be  almost  as  great  as  Mahbub  AH !  The  house- 
tops of  his  search  should  be  half  India;  he  would  follow  kings  and 
ministers,  as  in  the  old  days  he  had  followed  vakils  and  lawyers' 
touts  across  Lahore  city  for  Mahbub  Ali's  sake.  Meantime,  there 
was  the  present,  and  not  at  all  unpleasant,  fact  of  St.  Xavier's  im- 
mediately before  him.  There  would  be  new  boys  to  condescend  to, 
and  there  would  be  tales  of  holiday  adventures  to  hear.  Young 
Martin,  the  son  of  a  tea-planter  at  Manipur,  had  boasted  that  he 
would  go  to  war,  with  a  rifle,  against  the  head-hunters.  That 
might  be,  but  it  was  certain  young  Martin  had  not  been  blown  half 
across  the  forecourt  of  a  Patiala  palace  by  an  explosion  of  fireworks; 
nor  had  he.  ...  Kim  fell  to  telling  himself  the  story  of  his 
own  adventures  through  the  last  three  months.  He  could  para- 
lyse St.  Xavier's  —  even  the  biggest  boys  who  shaved  —  with  the 
recital,  were  that  permitted.  But  it  was,  of  course,  out  of  the 
question.  There  would  be  a  price  upon  his  head  in  good  time,  as 
Lurgan  Sahib  had  assured  him;  but  if  he  told  stories  now,  not  only 
would  that  price  never  be  set,  but  Colonel  Creighton  would  cast 
him  off  —  and  he  would  be  left  to  the  wrath  of  Lurgan  Sahib  and 
Mahbub  Ali  —  for  the  short  space  of  life  that  would  remain  to 
him. 

'So  I  should  lose  Delhi  for  the  sake  of  a  fish,'  was  his  proverbial 
philosophy.     It  behoved  him  to  forget  his  holidays  (there  would 


200  KIM 

always  remain  the  fun  of  inventing  imaginary  adventures),  and, 
as  Lurgan  Sahib  had  said,  to  work.  As  if  any  one  but  a  fool  of 
a  Sahib  would  show  his  method! 

Of  all  the  boys  hurrying  back  to  St.  Xavier's,  from  Sukkur  in 
the  sands  to  Galle  beneath  the  palms,  none  was  so  filled  with  virtue 
as  Kimball  O'Hara,  jigetting  down  to  Umballa  behind  Hurree 
Chunder  Mookerjee,  whose  name  on  the  books  of  one  section  of 
the  Ethnological  Survey  was  R.I7- 

And  if  additional  spur  were  needed,  the  Babu  supplied  it.  After 
a  huge  meal  at  Kalka,  he  spoke  as  a  stranger.  Was  Kim  going  to 
school?  Then  he,  an  M.  A.  of  Calcutta  University,  would  explain 
the  advantages  of  education.  There  were  marks  to  be  gained  by 
due  attention  to  Latin  and  Wordsworth's  Excursion  (all  this  was 
Greek  to  Kim).  Also  a  man  might  go  far,  as  he  himself  had  done, 
by  strict  attention  to  plays  called  Lear  and  Julius  Caesar,  both 
much  in  demand  by  examiners  on  the  Bengal  side.  Lear  was  not 
so  full  of  historical  allusions  as  Julius  Caesar;  the  book  cost  four 
annas,  but  could  be  bought  second-hand  in  Bow  Bazar  for  two. 
No  one  should  waste  his  money  on  new  books.  Still,  more  impor- 
tant than  Wordsworth,  or  the  eminent  authors,  Burke  and  Hare, 
was  the  art  and  science  of  mensuration  which  included  trigonome- 
try and  the  survey  of  land.  A  boy  who  had  passed  his  examina- 
tion in  these  branches  —  for  which,  by  the  way,  there  were  no 
cram-books  —  could,  by  merely  marching  over  a  country  with  a 
compass  and  a  level  and  a  straight  eye,  carry  away  a  picture  of  that 
country  which  might  be  sold  for  large  sums  in  coined  silver.  But 
as  it  was  occasionally  inexpedient  to  carry  about  measuring-chains, 
a  boy  would  do  well  to  know  the  precise  length  of  his  own  foot- 
pace, so  that  when  he  was  deprived  of  what  Hurree  Chunder 
called  'adventitious  aids'  he  might  still  tread  his  distances.  To 


KIM  201 

keep  count  of  thousands  of  paces,  Hurree  Chunder's  experience 
had  shown  him  nothing  more  valuable  than  a  rosary  of  eighty-one 
or  a  hundred  and  eight  beads,  for  'it  was  divisible  and  sub-divisible 
into  many  multiples  and  sub-multiples.'  Through  the  volleying 
drifts  of  English,  Kim  caught  the  general  trend  of  the  talk,  and  it 
interested  him  'a  very  much.'  Here  was  a  new  craft  that  a  man 
could  carry  in  his  head;  and  by  the  look  of  the  large  wide  world 
unfolding  itself  before  him,  it  seemed  that  the  more  a  man  knew  the 
better  for  him. 

Said  the  Babu  when  he  had  talked  for  an  hour  and  a  half,  'I 
hope  some  day  to  enjoy  your  offeecial  acquaintance.  Ad  interim, 
if  I  may  be  pardoned  that  expression,  I  shall  give  you  this  betel- 
box  which  is  highly  valuable  article  and  cost  me  two  rupees  only 
four  years  ago.'  It  was  a  cheap,  heart-shaped  brass  box  with  three 
compartments  for  carrying  the  eternal  betel-nut,  lime  and  pan-leaf; 
but  it  was  filled  with  little  tabloid  bottles.  'That  is  reward  of 
merit  for  your  performance  in  character  of  that  holy  man.  You 
see,  you  are  so  young  you  think  you  will  last  for  ever  and  not  take 
care  of  your  body.  It  is  great  nuisance  to  go  sick  in  the  middle  of 
business.  I  am  verree  fond  of  drugs  myself,  and  they  are  handy  to 
impress  poor  people  too.  I  give  it  you  for  souvenir.  Now  good- 
bye. I  have  urgent  private  business  here  by  the  roadside.' 

He  slipped  out  noiselessly  as  a  cat,  on  the  Umballa  road,  hailed 
a  passing  ekka  and  jingled  away,  while  Kim,  tongue-tied,  twiddled 
the  brass  betel-box  in  his  hands. 


The  record  of  a  boy's  education  interests  few  save  his  parents, 
and,  as  you  know,  Kim  was  an  orphan.  It  is  written  in  the  books 
of  St.  Xavier  in  Partibus  that  a  report  of  Kim's  progress  was  for- 


202  KIM 

warded  at  the  end  of  each  term  to  Colonel  Creighton  and  to  Father 
Victor,  from  whose  hand  duly  came  the  money  for  his  schooling.  It 
is  further  recorded  in  the  same  books  that  he  showed  a  great  ap- 
titude for  mathematical  studies  as  well  as  map-making,  and  car- 
ried away  a  prize  (The  Life  of  Lord  Lawrence,  tree  calf,  two  vols., 
nine  rupees,  eight  annas)  for  proficiency  therein;  and  the  same 
term  played  in  St.  Xavier's  eleven  against  the  Allyghur  Moham- 
medan College,  his  age  being  fourteen  years  and  ten  months.  He 
was  also  vaccinated  (from  which  we  may  assume  that  there  had 
been  another  epidemic  of  small-pox  at  Lucknow)  about  the  same 
time.  Pencil  notes  on  the  edge  of  an  old  muster-roll  record  that 
he  was  punished  several  times  for  '  conversing  with  improper  per- 
sons/ and  the  principal  knows  that  he  was  once  sentenced  to  heavy 
pains  for  'absenting  himself  for  a  day  in  the  company  of  a  street 
beggar.'  That  was  when  he  got  over  the  gate  and  he  pleaded  with 
the  lama  down  the  banks  of  the  Goomte  to  accompany  him  on  the 
road  next  holidays  -  -  for  one  month  —  for  a  little  week;  and  the 
lama  set  his  face  as  a  flint  against  it,  saying  that  the  time  had  not 
yet  come.  Kim's  business,  said  the  old  man  as  they  ate  cakes  to- 
gether, was  to  get  all  the  wisdom  of  the  Sahibs  and  then  he  would 
see.  The  hand  of  friendship  must  have  in  some  way  averted  the 
whip  of  calamity,  for  six  weeks  later  Kim  seems  to  have  passed  an 
examination  in  elementary  surveying  'with  great  credit/  his  age 
being  fifteen  years  and  four  months.  From  this  date  the  record  is 
silent.  His  name  does  not  appear  in  the  year's  batch  of  those  who 
entered  for  the  subordinate  survey  of  India,  but  against  it  stands 
the  words  'removed  on  appointment.' 

Several  times  in  those  three  years,  cast  up  at  the  Temple  of  the 
Tirthankers  in  Benares  the  lama,  a  little  thinner  and  a  shade  yel- 
lower, if  that  were  possible,  but  still  burning  with  his  inextinguish- 


KIM  203 

able  hope.  Sometimes  it  was  from  the  South  that  he  came  — 
from  south  of  Tuticorin  —  whence  the  wonderful  fire-boats  go  to 
Ceylon  and  the  priests  who  know  Pali;  sometimes  it  was  from  the 
wet  green  West  and  the  thousand  cotton-factory  chimneys  that 
ring  Bombay;  and  once  from  the  North,  where  he  had  doubled 
back  eight  hundred  miles  to  talk  a  day  with  the  Keeper  of  the 
Images  in  the  Wonder  House.  He  would  go  to  his  cell  in  the  cool, 
cut  marble  —  for  the  priests  of  the  temple  were  good  to  the  old 
man  —  wash  off  the  dust  of  travel,  make  prayer,  and  depart  for 
Lucknow,  well  accustomed  now  to  the  ways  of  the  rail,  in  a  third- 
class  carriage.  Returning,  it  was  noticeable,  as  his  friend  the 
Seeker  pointed  out  to  the  head  priest,  that  he  ceased  for  a  while  to 
mourn  the  loss  of  his  River,  or  to  draw  wondrous  pictures  of  the 
Wheel  of  Life,  and  preferred  to  talk  of  the  beauty  and  wisdom  of  a 
certain  mysterious  chela  whom  no  man  of  the  temple  had  ever  seen. 
Yes,  he  had  followed  the  traces  of  the  Blessed  Feet  throughout  all 
India  (the  curator  has  still  in  his  possession  a  most  marvellous  ac- 
count of  his  wanderings  and  meditations) ;  there  remained  nothing 
more  in  life  but  to  find  the  River  of  Healing.  Yet  it  seemed  to 
him  that  it  was  a  matter  not  to  be  undertaken  with  any  hope  of 
success  unless  the  Seeker  took  with  him  the  one  chela  appointed  to 
bring  the  event  to  a  happy  issue,  and  versed  in  great  wisdom  — 
such  wisdom  as  white-haired  Keepers  of  Images  possessed.  For 
example  (here  came  out  the  snuff-gourd,  and  the  kindly  Jain  priests 
made  haste  to  be  silent). 

'Long  and  long  ago,  when  Devadatta  was  King  of  Benares  — 
let  all  listen  to  the  Jdtaka!  —  an  elephant  was  captured  for  a  time 
by  the  king's  hunters,  and  ere  he  broke  free,  ringed  with  a  grievous 
leg-iron.  This  he  strove  to  remove  with  hate  and  frenzy  in  his 
heart,  and  hurrying  up  and  down  the  forest,  besought  his  brother 


204  KIM 

elephants  to  wrench  it  asunder.  One  by  one  they  tried  with  their 
strong  trunks  and  failed.  At  the  last  they  gave  it  as  their  opinion 
that  the  ring  was  not  to  be  broken  by  any  bestial  power.  And  in  a 
thicket,  new-born,  wet  with  the  moisture  of  birth,  lay  a  day-old 
calf  of  the  herd  whose  mother  had  died.  The  fettered  elephant, 
forgetting  his  own  agony,  said:  "If  I  do  not  help  this  suckling  it 
will  perish  under  our  feet."  So  he  stood  above  the  young  thing, 
making  his  legs  buttresses  against  the  uneasily  moving  herd;  and 
he  begged  milk  of  a  virtuous  cow,  and  the  calf  throve,  and  the  ringed 
elephant  was  the  calf's  guide  and  defence.  Now  the  days  of  an 
elephant  —  let  all  listen  to  the  Jataka  —  are  thirty-five  years  to 
his  full  strength,  and  through  thirty-five  rains  the  ringed  elephant 
befriended  the  younger,  and  all  the  while  the  fetter  ate  into  the 
flesh. 

'Then  one  day  the  young  elephant  saw  the  half-buried  coil,  and 
turning  to  the  elder  said:  "What  is  this?':  "It  is  even  my 
sorrow,"  said  he  who  had  befriended  him.  Then  that  other  put 
out  his  trunk  and  in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye-lash  abolished  the  ring, 
saying:  'The  appointed  time  has  come."  So  the  virtuous  ele- 
phant who  had  waited  temperately  and  done  kind  acts  was  re- 
lieved, at  the  appointed  time,  by  the  very  calf  whom  he  had  turned 
aside  to  cherish  -  -  let  all  listen  to  the  Jataka  —  for  the  elephant  was 
Ananda,  and  the  calf  that  broke  the  ring  was  none  other  than  The 
Lord  himself.  .  .  .' 

Then  he  would  shake  his  head  benignly,  and  over  the  ever- 
clicking  rosary  point  out  how  free  that  elephant  calf  was  from  the 
sin  of  pride.  He  was  as  humble  as  a  chela  who,  seeing  his  master 
sitting  in  the  dust  outside  the  gates  of  learning,  overleapt  the  gates 
(though  they  were  locked)  and  took  his  master  to  his  heart  in  the 
presence  of  the  proud-stomached  city.  Rich  would  be  the  reward 


KIM  205 

of  such  a  master  and  such  a.  chela  when  the  time  came  for  them  to 
seek  freedom  together. 

So  did  the  lama  speak,  coming  and  going  across  India  as  softly . 
as  a  bat.  A  sharp-tongued  old  woman  in  a  house  among  the  fruit- 
trees  behind  Saharunpore  honoured  them  as  the  woman  honoured 
the  prophet,  but  his  chamber  was  by  no  means  upon  the  wall.  In 
an  apartment  of  the  forecourt  overlooked  by  cooing  doves  he  would 
sit,  while  she  laid  aside  her  useless  veil  and  chattered  of  spirits  and 
fiends  of  Kubi,  of  grandchildren  unborn,  and  the  free-tongued  brat 
.  who  had  talked  to  her  in  the  resting-place.  Once,  too,  he  strayed 
alone  from  the  Grand  Trunk  road  below  Umballa  to  the  very  vil- 
lage whose  priest  had  tried  to  drug  him;  but  the  kind  heaven  that 
guards  lamas  sent  him  at  twilight  through  the  crops,  clicking  his 
rosary,  to  the  ressaldar's  door.  Here  was  like  to  have  been  a  grave 
misunderstanding,  for  the  old  soldier  asked  him  why  the  Friend 
of  the  Stars  had  gone  that  way  only  six  days  before. 

'That  may  not  be/  said  the  lama.  'He  has  gone  back  to  his 
own  people.' 

'He  sat  in  that  corner  telling  a  hundred  merry  tales  five  nights 
ago,'  his  host  insisted.  'True,  he  vanished  somewhat  suddenly  in 
the  dawn  after  foolish  talk  with  my  grand-daughter.  He  grows 
apace,  but  he  is  the  same  Friend  of  the  Stars  as  brought  me  true 
word  of  the  war.  Have  ye  parted  then?' 

'Yes  —  and  No,'  the  lama  replied.  'We  —  we  have  not  alto- 
gether parted,  but  the  time  is  not  ripe  that  we  should  take  the  road 
together.  He  acquires  wisdom  in  another  place.  We  must  wait.' 

'All  one  —  but  if  it  were  not  the  boy  how  did  he  come  to  speak 
so  continually  of  thee?' 

'And  what  said  he?'  asked  the  lama  eagerly. 

'Sweet   words  —  an    hundred    thousand  —  that   thou    art   his 


206  KIM 

father  and  mother  and  such  all.     Pity  that  he  does  not  take  the 
Queen's  service.' 

This  news  amazed  the  lama,  who  then  did  not  know  how  re- 
ligiously Kim  kept  to  the  contract  made  with  Mahbub  Ali,  and 
perforce  ratified  by  Colonel  Creighton.  'There  is  no  holding  the 
young  pony  from  the  game,'  said  the  horse-dealer  when  the  Colonel 
pointed  out  that  vagabonding  over  India  in  holiday  time  was 
absurd.  'If  permission  be  refused  to  go  and  come  as  he  chooses, 
he  will  make  light  of  the  refusal.  Then  who  is  to  catch  him? 
Colonel  Sahib,  only  once  in  a  thousand  years  is  a  horse  born  so  well 
fitted  for  the  game  as  this  our  colt.' 


CHAPTER  X 

Your  tiercel's  too  long  at  hack,  Sire.    He's  no  eyass 

But  a  passage-hawk  that  footed  ere  we  caught  him, 

Dangerously  free  o'  the  air.     Faith!  were  he  mine 

(As  mine's  the  glove  he  binds  to  for  his  tirings) 

I'd  fly  him  with  a  make-hawk.     He's  in  yarak 

Plumed  to  the  very  point  —  so  manned  so  weathered     .     .     . 

Give  him  the  firmament  God  made  him  for, 

And  what  shall  take  the  air  of  him?  —  Old  Play. 

LURGAN  SAHIB  did  not  use  as  direct  speech,  but  his  advice  tallied 
with  Mahbub's;  and  the  upshot  was  good  for  Kim.  He  knew  bet- 
ter now  than  to  leave  Lucknao  city  in  native  garb,  and  if  Mahbub 
were  anywhere  within  reach  of  a  letter,  it  was  to  Mahbub's  camp 
he  headed,  and  made  his  change  under  the  Pathan's  wary  eye.  If 
the  little  tin  paint-box  that  he  used  for  map-tinting  in  term  time 
could  have  found  a  tongue  to  tell  of  holiday  doings,  he  might  have 
been  expelled.  Once  Mahbub  and  he  went  together  as  far  as  the 
beautiful  city  of  Bombay,  with  three  truck-loads  of  tram-horses, 
and  Mahbub  nearly  melted  when  Kim  proposed  a  sail  in  a  dhow 
across  the  Indian  Ocean  to  buy  Gulf  Arabs,  which  he  understood 
from  a  hanger-on  of  the  great  Abdul  Rahman,  fetched  better  prices 
than  mere  Kabulis. 

He  dipped  his  hand  into  the  dish  with  that  great  trader  when 
Mahbub,  and  a  few  co-religionists,  was  invited  to  a  big  Haj  dinner. 
They  came  back  by  way  of  Karachi  by  sea,  when  Kim  took  his 
first  experience  of  sea-sickness  sitting  on  the  fore-hatch  of  a  coast- 
ing-steamer, well  persuaded  he  had  been  poisoned.  The  Babu's 

207 


208  KIM 

famous  drug-box  proved  useless,  though  Kim  had  restocked  it  at 
Bombay.  Mahbub  had  business  at  Quetta,  and  Kim,  as  Mahbub 
admitted,  earned  his  keep,  and  perhaps  a  little  over,  by  spending 
four  amazing  days  as  scullion  in  the  house  of  a  fat  commissariat 
sergeant,  from  whose  office-box,  in  an  auspicious  moment,  he  re- 
moved a  little  vellum  ledger  which  he  copied  out  —  it  seemed  to 
deal  entirely  with  cattle  and  camel  sales  —  by  moonlight,  lying  be- 
hind an  outhouse,  all  through  one  hot  night.  Then  he  returned 
the  ledger  to  its  place,  and,  at  Mahbub's  word,  left  that  service, 
rejoining  him  six  miles  down  the  road,  the  clean  copy  in  his 
bosom. 

'That  soldier  is  a  small  fish,'  Mahbub  AH  explained,  'but  in 
time  we  shall  catch  the  larger  one.  He  only  sells  oxen  at  two  prices 
—  one  for  himself  and  one  for  the  Government  —  which  I  do  not 
think  is  a  sin.' 

'But  why  could  not  I  take  away  the  little  book  and  be  done 
with  it?' 

'Then  he  would  have  been  frightened,  and  he  would  have  told 
his  master  —  then  we  should  miss,  perhaps,  a  great  number  of  new 
rifles  which  seek  their  way  up  from  Quetta  to  the  north.  The 
game  is  so  large  that  one  sees  but  a  little  at  a  time. ' 

'Oho!'  said  Kim,  and  held  his  tongue.  That  was  in  the  mon- 
soon holidays,  after  he  had  taken  the  prize  for  mathematics.  The 
Christmas  holidays  he  spent  -  -  deducting  ten  days  for  private 
amusements  -  -  with  Lurgan  Sahib,  where  he  sat  for  the  most  part 
in  front  of  a  roaring  wood-fire  -  -  Jakko  road  was  four  feet  deep  in 
snow  that  year  —  and  -  -  the  small  Hindu  had  gone  away  to  be 
married  —  helped  Lurgan  to  thread  pearls.  He  made  Kim  learn 
whole  chapters  of  the  Koran  by  heart,  till  he  could  deliver  them 
with  the  very  roll  and  cadence  of  a  mullah.  Moreover,  he  told 


KIM  209 

Kim  the  names  and  properties  of  many  native  drugs,  as  well  as 
the  formulae  proper  to  recite  when  you  administer  them.  And  in 
the  evenings  he  wrote  charms  on  parchment  —  elaborate  penta- 
grams crowned  with  the  names  of  devils  —  Murra  and  Awan,  the 
Companion  of  Kings  —  all  fantastically  written  in  the  corners. 
-What  was  more  to  the  point,  he  advised  Kim  as  to  the  care  of  his 

* 

own  body,  the  cure  of  fever-fits,  and  simple  remedies  of  the  road. « 
A  week  before  it  was  time  to  go  down,  Colonel  Creighton  Sahib  — 
this  was  unfair  —  sent  Kim  a  written  examination  paper  that  con-  ' 
cerned  itself  solely  with  rods  and  chains  and  links  and  angles. 

Next  holidays  he  was  out  with  Mahbub,  and  here,  by  the  way,  he 
nearly  died  of  thirst,  plodding  through  the  sand  on  a  camel  to  the 
mysterious  city  of  Bikaneer,  where  the  wells  are  four  hundred  feet 
deep,  and  lined  throughout  with  camel-bone.  It  was  not  an  amus- 
ing trip  from  Kim's  point  of  view,  because  —  in  defiance  of  the 
.  contract  —  the  Colonel  ordered  him  to  make  a  map  of  that  wild, 
walled  city;  and  since  Mohammedan  horse-boys  and  pipe- tenders 
are  not  expected  to  drag  survey-chains  round  the  capital  of  an  in- 
dependent native  state,  Kim  was  forced  to  pace  all  his  distances  by 
means  of  a  bead  rosary.  He  used  the  compass  for  bearings  as 
occasion  served  —  after  dark  chiefly,  when  the  camels  had  been 
fed  —  and  by  the  help  of  his  little  survey  paint-box  of  six  colour- 
cakes  and  three  brushes,  he  achieved  something  not  remotely  un- 
like the  city  of  Jeysalmir.  Mahbub  laughed  a  great  deal,  and  ad- 
vised him  to  make  up  a  written  report  as  well,  and  in  the  back  of  the 
big  account-book  that  lay  under  the  flap  of  Mahbub's  pet  saddle 
Kim  fell  to  work. 

'It  must  hold  everything  that  thou  hast  seen  or  touched  or  con- 
sidered. Write  as  though  the  Jung-i-lat  Sahib  himself  had  come 
by  stealth  with  a  vast  army  outsetting  to  war.' 


210  KIM 

' How  great  an  army?' 

'Oh,  half  a  lash  of  men.' 

'Folly!  Remember  how  few  and  bad  were  the  wells  in  the  pest. 
Not  a  thousand  thirsty  men  could  come  near  by  here.' 

'Then  write  that  down  -  -  also  all  the  old  breaches  in  the  walls 
—  and  whence  the  firewood  is  cut  —  and  what  is  the  temper  and 
disposition  of  the  king.  I  stay  here  till  all  my  horses  are  sold.  I 
will  go  hire  a  room  by  the  gateway,  and  thou  shalt  be  my  account- 
ant. There  is  a  good  lock  to  the  door.' 

The  report  in  its  unmistakable  St.  Xavier's  running  hand,  and 
the  brown,  yellow,  and  lake  daubed  map  was  on  hand  a  few  years 
ago  (a  careless  clerk  filed  it  with  the  rough  notes  of  E.23's  second 
Seistan  survey),  but  by  now  the  pencil  characters  must  be  almost 
illegible.  Kim  translated  it,  sweating  under  the  light  of  an  oil 
lamp,  to  Mahbub,  the  second  day  of  their  return  journey.  The 
Pathan  rose  and  stooped  over  the  dappled  saddle-bags. 

'I  knew  it  would  be  worthy  a  dress  of  honour,  and  so  I  made  one 
ready,'  he  said  smiling.  'Were  I  the  Amir  of  Afghanistan  (and 
some  day  we  may  see  him),  I  would  fill  thy  mouth  with  gold.' 
He  laid  the  garments  formally  at  Kim's  feet.  There  was  a  gold- 
embroidered  Peshawur  turban  cap,  rising  to  a  cone,  and  a  big  tur- 
ban cloth  ending  in  a  broad  fringe  of  gold.  There  was  a  Delhi 
embroidered  waistcoat  to  slip  over  a  milky  white  shirt,  fastening  to 
the  right,  ample  and  flowing;  green  pyjamas  with  twisted  silk 
waist-string;  and  that  nothing  might  be  lacking,  russia  leather 
slippers,  smelling  divinely,  with  arrogantly  curled  tips. 

'Upon  a  Wednesday,  and  in  the  morning,  to  put  on  new  clothes 
is  auspicious,'  said  Mahbub  solemnly.  '  But  we  must  not  forget 
there  are  wicked  folk  in  the  world.  So!' 

He  capped  all  the  splendour,  that  was  taking  Kim's  delighted 


KIM  211 

breath  away,  by  a  mother-of-pearl,  nickel-plated,  self-extracting 
.450  revolver. 

'I  had  thought  of  a  smaller  bore,  but  reflected  that  this  takes 
Government  bullets.  A  man  can  always  come  by  those  —  espe- 
cially across  the  border.  Stand  up  and  let  me  look.'  He  clapped 
Kim  on  the  shoulder.  'May  you  never  be  tired,  Pathan!  Oh, 
the  hearts  to  be  broken!  Oh,  the  eyes  under  the  eyelashes,  look- 
ing sideways!' 

Kim  turned  about,  pointed  his  toes,  stretched,  and  felt  mechan- 
ically for  the  moustache  that  was  just  beginning.  Then  he  stooped 
toward  Mahbub's  feet  to  make  proper  acknowledgment  with  flut- 
tering, quick-patting  hands;  his  heart  too  full  for  words.  Mahbub 
forestalled  and  embraced  him. 

'My  son,'  said  he,  'what  need  of  words  between  us?  But  is  not 
the  little  gun  a  delight?  All  six  cartridges  come  out  at  one  twist. 
It  is  borne  in  the  bosom  next  the  skin,  which,  as  it  were,  keeps  it 
oiled.  Never  put  it  elsewhere,  and  please  God,  thou  shalt  some 
day  kill  a  man  with  it.' 

lHai  mair  said  Kim  ruefully.  'If  a  Sahib  kills  a  man  he  is  hung 
in  the  jail.' 

'True:  but  one  pace  beyond  the  border,  men  are  wiser.  Put  it 
away;  but  fill  it  first.  Of  what  use  is  a  gun  unfed?' 

'When  I  go  back  to  the  madrissah  I  must  return  it.  They  do 
not  allow  little  guns.  Thou  wilt  keep  it  for  me?' 

'  Son,  I  am  wearied  of  that  madrissah,  where  they  take  the  best 
years  of  a  man  to  teach  him  what  he  can  only  learn  upon  the  road. 
But  the  folly  of  the  Sahibs  has  neither  top  nor  bottom.  No  mat- 
ter. May  be  thy  written  report  shall  save  thee  further  bondage; 
and  God  He  knows  we  need  men  more  and  more  in  the  Game.' 

They  marched,  jaw-bound  against  blowing  sand,  across  the  salt 


'212  KIM 

desert  to  Jidhpore,  where  Mahbub  and  his  handsome  nephew 
Habib-Allah  did  much  trading;  and  then  sorrowfully,  in  European 
clothes,  which  he  was  fast  outgrowing,  Kim  went  second-class  to 
St.  Xavier's.  Three  weeks  later,  Colonel  Creighton,  pricing  Tibe- 
tan ghost-daggers  at  Lurgan's  shop,  faced  Mahbub  AH  openly 
mutinous.  Lurgan  Sahib  operated  as  support  in  reserve. 

1  The  pony  is  made  —  finished  —  mouthed  and  paced,  Sahib. 
From  now  on,  day  by  day,  he  will  lose  his  manners  if  he  is  kept  at 
tricks.  Loose  the  rein  on  his  back  and  let  go,'  said  the  horse- 
dealer.  'We  need  him.' 

'  But  he  is  so  young,  Mahbub  —  not  more  than  sixteen  —  is  he  ? ' 

'When  I  was  fifteen,  I  had  shot  my  man  and  begot  my  man, 
Sahib.' 

'You  impertinent  old  heathen.'  Creighton  turned  to  Lurgan. 
The  black  beard  nodded  assent  to  the  wisdom  of  the  Afghan's 
dyed  scarlet. 

'I  should  have  used  him  long  ago,'  said  Lurgan.  'The  younger 
the  better.  That  is  why  I  always  have  my  really  valuable  jewels 
watched  by  a  child.  You  sent  him  to  me  to  try.  I  tried  him  in 
every  way:  he  is  the  only  boy  I  could  not  make  to  see  things/ 

'In  the  crystal  —  in  the  ink-pool?'  demanded  Mahbub. 

'No.  Under  my  hand,  as  I  told  you.  That  was  quite  unique. 
I  was  annoyed.  With  an  older  man  to  guide  him  on  the  road,  he 
would  have  been  fit  for  work  then.  And  that  is  three  years  ago. 
I  have  taught  him  a  good  deal  since,  Colonel  Creighton.  I  think 
you  waste  him  now.' 

'Hmm!  Maybe  you're  right.  But,  as  you  know,  there  is  no 
survey  work  for  him  at  present.' 

'Let  him  out-  -let  him  go,'  Mahbub  interrupted.  'Who  ex- 
pects any  colt  to  carry  heavy  weight  at  first?  Let  him  run  with 


KIM  213 

the  caravans  like  our  white  camel-colts  —  for  luck.  I  would  take 
him  myself,  but ' 

1  There  is  a  little  business  in  which  he  would  be  most  useful  — 
in  the  South,'  said  Lurgan,  with  peculiar  suavity,  dropping  his 
heavy  blued  eyelids. 

1  £.23  has  that  in  hand,'  said  Creighton  quickly.  'He  must  not 
go  down  there.  Besides,  he  knows  no  Turki.' 

1  Only  tell  him  the  shape  and  the  smell  of  the  letters  we  want  and 
he  will  bring  them  back,'  Lurgan  insisted. 

'No.     That  is  a  man's  job,'  said  Creighton. 

It  was  a  little  matter  of  unauthorized  and  incendiary  corre- 
spondence between  a  person  who  claimed  to  be  the  ultimate  au- 
thority in  all  matters  of  the  Mohammedan  religion  throughout  the 
world,  and  a  younger  member  of  a  royal  house  who  had  been  brought 
to  book  for  kidnapping  women  within  British  territory.  The 
Moslem  Archbishop  had  been  emphatic  and  over-arrogant;  the 
young  prince  was  merely  sulky  at  the  curtailment  of  his  privileges, 
but  there  was  no  need  he  should  continue  a  correspondence  which 
might  some  day  compromise  him.  One  letter  indeed  had  been 
procured,  but  the  finder  was  later  found  dead  by  the  roadside  in 
the  habit  of  an  Arab  trader,  as  £.23,  taking  up  the  work,  duly  re- 
ported. 

These  facts,  and  a  few  others  not  to  be  published,  made  both 
Mahbub  and  Creighton  shake  their  heads. 

'Let  him  go  out  with  his  red  lama,'  said  the  horse-dealer  with 
visible  effort.  'He  is  fond  of  the  old  man.  He  can  learn  his  paces 
by  the  rosary.' 

'I  have  had  some  dealings  with  the  old  man  —  by  letter,'  said 
Colonel  Creighton,  smiling  to  himself.  'Whither  goes  he?' 

'Up  and  down  the  land,  as  he  has  these  three  years.     He  seeks 


214  KIM 

a  river  of  healing.  God's  curse  upon  all '  Mahbub  checked 

himself.  'He  beds  down  at  the  Temple  of  the  Tirthankers  and  at 
Buddh-Gaya  when  he  is  in  from  the  road.  Then  he  goes  to  see  the 
boy  at  the  madrissah  as  we  know,  for  the  boy  was  punished  for  it 
twice  or  thrice.  He  is  quite  mad,  but  a  peaceful  man.  I  have  met 
him.  The  Babu  also  has  had  dealings  with  him.  We  have  watched 
him  for  three  years.  Red  lamas  are  not  so  common  in  Hind  that 
one  loses  track.' 

'Babus  are  very  curious,'  said  Lurgan  meditatively.  'Do  you 
know  what  Hurree  Babu  really  wants?  He  wants  to  be  made  a 
member  of  the  Royal  Society  by  taking  ethnological  notes.  I 
tell  you,  I  tell  him  about  the  lama  everything  that  Mahbub  and 
the  boy  have  told  me.  Hurree  Babu  goes  down  to  Benares  — 
at  his  own  expense,  I  think.' 

'/  don't,'  said  Creighton  briefly.  He  had  paid  Hurree's  travel- 
ling expenses,  but  of  a  most  lively  necessity  to  learn  what  the  lama 
might  be. 

'And  he  applies  to  the  lama  for  information  on  lamaism,  and 
devil  dances,  and  spells  and  charms,  several  times  in  these  few 
years.  Holy  Virgin!  I  could  have  told  him  all  that  yee-ars  ago. 
I  think  Hurree  Babu  is  getting  too  old  for  the  road.  He  likes  bet- 
ter to  collect  manners  and  customs  information.  Yes,  he  wants  to 
be  an  F.R.S.' 

*  Hurree  thinks  well  of  the  boy,  doesn't  he?' 

'Oh,  very  indeed  —  we  have  had  some  pleasant  evenings  at  my 
little  place  —  but  I  think  it  would  be  waste  to  throw  him  away 
with  Hurree  on  the  ethnological  side.' 

'Not  for  a  first  experience.  How  does  that  strike  you,  Mahbub ? 
Let  the  boy  run  with  the  lama  for  six  months.  He  will  get  ex- 
perience and  knowledge  —  of  a  sort.' 


KIM  215 

'He  has  it  already,  Sahib  —  as  a  fish  controls  the  water  he 
swims  in;  but  for  every  reason  it  will  be  well  to  loose  him  from 
the  school.' 

'Very  good,  then,'  said  Creighton,  half  to  himself.  'He  can 
go  with  the  lama,  and  if  Hurree  Babu  cares  to  go  with  them  so 
much  the  better.  He  won't  lead  the  boy  into  any  devilry  as  Mah- 
bub  would.  Curious  —  his  wish  to  be  an  F.R.S.  Very  human, 
too.  He  is  best  on  the  ethnological  side  —  Hurree.' 

No  money  and  no  preferment  would  have  drawn  Creighton  from 
his  work  on  the  Intelligence,  but  deep  in  his  heart  also  lay  the  am- 
bition to  write  *  F.R.S.'  after  his  name.  Honours  of  a  sort  he 
knew  could  be  obtained  by  ingenuity  and  the  help  of  friends,  but, 
to  the  best  of  his  belief,  nothing  save  work  —  papers  representing 
a  life  of  it  —  took  a  man  into  the  Society  which  he  had  bombarded 
for  years  with  monographs  on  strange  Asiatic  cults  and  unknown 
customs.  Nine  men  out  of  ten  would  flee  from  a  Royal  Society 
soiree  in  extremity  of  boredom;  but  Creighton  was  the  tenth,  and 
at  times  his  soul  yearned  for  the  crowded  rooms  in  easy  London 
where  silver-haired,  bald-headed  gentlemen  who  know  nothing  of 
the  Army  move  among  spectroscopic  experiments,  the  lesser  plants 
of  the  frozen  tundras,  electric  flight-measuring  machines,  and  ap- 
paratus for  slicing  into  fractional  millimetres  the  left  eye  of  the 
female  mosquito.  By  all  right  and  reason,  it  was  the  Royal  Geo- 
giaphical  that  should  have  appealed  to  him,  but  men  are  as  chancy 
as  children  in  their  choice  of  playthings.  So  Creighton  smiled, 
and  thought  the  better  of  Hurree  Babu,  moved  by  like  desire. 

He  dropped  the  ghost-dagger  and  looked  up  at  Mahbub. 

4 How  soon  can  we  get  the  colt  from  the  stable?'  said  the  horse- 
dealer,  reading  his  eyes. 

'Hmm.     If  I  withdraw  him  by  order  now  —  what  will  he  do, 


216  KIM 

think  you?     I  have  never  before  assisted  at  the  teaching  of  such 

an  one/ 

'He  will  come  to  me/  said  Mahbub  promptly.  'I  will  prepare 
him  for  the  road.  And  the  rest  I  can  oversee.' 

'So  be  it,  then.  For  six  months  he  shall  run  at  his  choice:  but 
who  will  be  his  sponsor?' 

Lurgan  slightly  inclined  his  head.  'He  will  not  tell  anything,  if 
that  is  what  you  are  afraid  of,  Colonel  Creighton.' 

'It's  only  a  boy,  after  all.' 

'Ye-es;  but  first,  he  has  nothing  to  tell;  and  secondly,  he  knows 
what  would  happen.  Also,  he  is  very  fond  of  Mahbub,  and  of  me 
a  little.' 

'Does  he  draw  pay?'  demanded  the  practical  horse-dealer. 

'Food  and  water  allowance  only.     Twenty  rupees  a  month.' 

One  advantage  of  the  Secret  Service  is  that  it  has  no  worrying 
audit.  The  service  is  ludicrously  starved,  of  course,  but  the  funds 
are  administered  by  a  few  men  who  do  not  call  for  vouchers  or 
present  itemized  accounts.  Mahbub's  eyes  lighted  with  almost  a 
Sikh's  love  of  money.  Even  Lurgan's  impassive  face  changed.  He 
considered  the  years  to  come  when  Kim  would  have  been  entered 
and  made  to  the  Great  Game  that  never  ceases  day  and  night, 
throughout  India.  He  foresaw  honour  and  credit  in  the  mouths 
of  a  chosen  few,  coming  to  him  from  his  pupil.  Lurgan  Sahib  had 
made  £.23  what  £.23  was,  out  of  a  bewildered,  impertinent,  lying, 
little  Northwest  Province  man. 

But  the  joy  of  these  masters  was  pale  and  smoky  beside  the  joy 
of  Kim  when  St.  Xavier's  Head  called  him  aside,  with  word  that 
Colonel  Creighton  had  sent  for  him. 

'I  understand,  O'Hara,  that  he  has  found  you  a  place  as  an  as- 
sistant chainman  in  the  Canal  Department:  that  comes  of  taking 


KIM  217 

up  mathematics.  It  is  great  luck  for  you,  for  you  are  only  seven- 
teen; but  of  course  you  understand  that  you  do  not  become  pukka 
(permanent)  till  you  have  passed  the  autumn  examination.  So 
you  must  not  think  you  are  going  out  into  the  world  to  enjoy  your- 
self, or  that  your  fortune  is  made.  There  is  a  great  deal  of  hard 
work  before  you.  Only,  if  you  succeed  in  becoming  pukka,  you 
can  rise,  you  know,  to  450  a  month.'  Whereat  the  Principal  gave 
him  much  good  advice  as  to  his  conduct,  and  his  manners,  and  his 
morals ;  and  others,  his  elders,  who  had  not  been  wefted  into  billets, 
talked,  as  only  Anglo-Indian  lads  can,  of  favouritism  and  corrup- 
tion. Indeed,  young  Cazalet,  whose  father  was  a  pensioner  at 
Chunar,  hinted  very  broadly  that  Colonel  Creighton's  interest  in 
Kim  was  directly  paternal;  and  Kim,  instead  of  retaliating,  did 
not  even  use  language.  He  was  thinking  of  the  immense  fun  to 
come,  of  Mahbub's  letter  of  the  day  before,  all  neatly  written  in 
English,  making  appointment  for  that  afternoon  in  a  house  the 
very  name  of  which  would  have  crisped  the  Principal's  hair  with 
horror.  .  .  . 

Said  Kim  to  Mahbub  at  the  railway  station  that  evening,  above 
the  luggage  scales  —  'I  feared  lest,  at  the  last,  the  roof  would  fall 
upon  me  and  cheat  me.  Is  it  indeed  all  finished,  O  my  father?' 

Mahbub  snapped  his  fingers  to  show  the  utterness  of  that  end, 
and  his  eyes  blazed  like  red  coals. 

'Then  where  is  the  pistol  that  I  may  wear  it?' 

*  Softly!  a  half-year,  to  run  without  heel- ropes.  I  begged  that 
much  from  Colonel  Creighton  Sahib.  At  twenty  rupees  a  month. 
Old  Red  Hat  knows  that  thou  art  coming.' 

'I  will  pay  thee  dustoorie  (commission)  on  my  pay  for  three 
months,'  said  Kim  gravely.  'Yea,  two  rupees  a  month.  But 
first  we  must  get  rid  of  these.'  He  plucked  his  thin  linen  trousers 


2i8  KIM 

and  dragged  at  his  collar.  '  I  have  brought  with  me  all  that  I  need 
on  the  road.  My  trunk  has  gone  up  to  Lurgan  Sahib's.' 

'Who  sends  his  salaams  to  thee  —  Sahib.' 

'Lurgan  Sahib  is  a  very  clever  man.     But  what  dost  thou  do?' 

*I  go  north  again,  upon  the  Great  Game.  What  else?  Is  thy 
mind  still  set  on  following  old  Red  Hat?' 

'  Do  not  forget  he  made  me  that  I  am  —  though  he  did  not  know 
it.  Year  by  year,  he  sent  the  money  that  taught  me.' 

'I  would  have  done  as  much  —  had  it  struck  my  thick  head,' 
Mahbub  growled.  'Come  away.  The  lamps  are  lit  now,  and 
none  will  mark  thee  in  the  bazar.  We  go  to  Huneefa's  house.' 

On  the  way  thither,  Mahbub  gave  him  much  the  same  sort  of 
advice  as  his  mother  gave  to  Lemuel,  and  curiously  enough,  Mah- 
bub was  exact  to  point  out  how  Huneefa  and  her  likes  destroyed 
kings. 

'And  I  remember,'  he  quoted  maliciously,  'one  who  said,  "Trust 
a  snake  before  a  harlot  and  a  harlot  before  a  Pathan,  Mahbub 
AH."  Now,  excepting  as  to  Pathans,  of  whom  I  am  one,  all  that 
is  true.  Most  true  is  it  in  the  Great  Game,  for  it  is  by  means  of 
women  that  all  plans  come  to  ruin  and  we  lie  out  in  dawning  with 
our  throats  cut.  So  it  happened  to  such  a  one,'  —  he  gave  the 
fullest  particulars. 

'Then   why 'Kim   paused   before   a   filthy   staircase   that 

climbed  to  the  warm  darkness  of  an  upper  chamber,  in  the  ward 
that  is  behind  Azim  Ullah's  tobacco  shop.  Those  who  know  it  call 
it  the  Bird-cage  —  it  is  so  full  of  whisperings  and  whistlings  and 
chirrupings. 

The  room,  with  its  dirty  cushions  and  half-smoked  hookahs, 
smelt  abominably  of  stale  tobacco.  In  one  corner  lay  a  huge  and 
shapeless  woman  clad  in  greenish  gauzes,  and  decked,  brow,  nose, 


KIM  219 

ear,  neck,  wrist,  arm,  waist,  and  ankle  with  heavy  native  jewellery. 
When  she  turned  it  was  like  the  clashing  of  copper  pots.  A  lean 
cat  in  the  balcony  outside  the  window  mewed  hungrily.  Kim 
checked,  bewildered,  at  the  door-curtain. 

'Is  that  the  new  stuff,  Mahbub?'  said  Huneefa  lazily,  scarce 
troubling  to  remove  the  mouthpiece  from  her  lips.  'O  Bukta- 
noos!'  —  like  most  of  her  kind,  she  swore  by  the  Djinns  —  'O 
Buktanoos!  He  is  very  good  to  look  upon.' 

'That  is  part  of  the  selling  of  the  horse,'  Mahbub  explained  to 
Kim,  who  laughed. 

1 1  have  heard  that  talk  since  my  Sixth  Day,'  he  replied,  squat- 
ting by  the  light.  'Whither  does  it  lead?' 

'To  protection.  To-night  we  change  thy  colour.  This  sleeping 
under  roofs  has  blanched  thee  like  an  almond.  But  Huneefa  has 
the  secret  of  a  colour  that  catches.  No  painting  of  a  day  or  two. 
Also,  we  fortify  thee  against  the  chances  of  the  road.  That  is  my 
gift  to  thee.  Take  out  all  metal  on  thee  and  lay  them  here. 
Make  ready,  Huneefa.' 

Kim  dragged  forth  his  compass,  Survey  paint-box,  and  the  new- 
filled  medicine  box.  They  had  all  accompanied  his  travels,  and 
boy-like  he  valued  them  immensely. 

The  woman  rose  slowly  and  moved  with  her  hands  a  little  spread 
before  her.  Then  Kim  saw  that  she  was  blind.  'No,  no,'  she 
muttered,  'the  Pathan  speaks  truth  —  my  colour  does  not  go  in 
a  week  or  a  month,  and  those  whom  I  protect  are  under  strong 
guard.' 

'When  one  is  far  off  and  alone,  it  would  not  be  well  to  grow 
blotched  and  leprous  of  a  sudden,'  said  Mahbub.  'When  thou 
wast  with  me  I  could  oversee  the  matter.  Besides,  a  Pathan 
is  a  fair-skin.  Strip  to  the  waist  now  and  look  how  thou  art 


220  KIM 

whitened.'  Huneefa  felt  her  way  back  from  an  inner  room.  'It 
is  no  matter,  she  cannot  see.'  He  took  a  pewter  bowl  from  her 
ringed  hand. 

The  dye-stuff  showed  blue  and  gummy.  Kim  experimented  on 
the  back  of  his  wrist,  with  a  dab  of  cotton-wool;  but  Huneefa  heard 
him. 

'No,  no,'  she  cried,  'the  thing  is  not  done  thus,  but  with  the 
proper  ceremonies.  The  colouring  is  the  least  part  of  the  spell. 
I  give  thee  the  full  protection  of  the  Road.' 

'  Jadoo?'  (magic),  said  Kim,  with  a  half  start.  He  did  not  like 
the  white,  sightless  eyes.  Mahbub's  hand  on  his  neck  bowed  him 
to  the  floor,  nose  within  an  inch  of  the  boards. 

'Be  still.  No  harm  comes  to  thee,  my  son.  I  am  thy  sac- 
rifice.' 

He  could  not  see  what  the  woman  was  about,  but  heard  the  clish- 
clash  of  her  jewellery  for  many  minutes.  A  match  lit  up  the  dark- 
ness; he  caught  the  well-known  purr  and  fizzle  of  grains  of  incense. 
Then  the  room  filled  with  smoke  -  -  heavy,  aromatic,  and  stupefy- 
ing. Through  growing  drowse  he  caught  the  names  of  devils  — 
of  Zulbazan,  son  of  Eblis,  who  lives  in  bazars  and  paraos,  making 
all  the  sudden  lewd  wickedness  of  wayside  halts;  of  Dulhan,  invis- 
ible about  mosques,  the  dweller  among  the  slippers  of  the  Faithful, 
who  hinders  folk  from  their  prayers;  and  Musboot,  Lord  of  lies 
and  panic.  Huneefa,  now  whispering  in  his  ear,  now  talking  as 
from  an  immense  distance,  touched  with  horrible  soft  fingers,  but 
Mahbub's  grip  never  shifted  from  his  neck  till,  relaxing  with  a 
sigh,  the  boy  lost  his  senses. 

'When  earth  is  so  full  of  devils,  why  call  up  the  Sons  of  Air?' 
said  Mahbub  testily.  'Go  on  with  the  dawut  (invocation).  Give 
him  the  full  protection.' 


K  I  M  221 

'0  Hearer!  Thou  that  hearest  with  ears.  Be  present.  Listen,  O 
Hearer!'  Huneefa  moaned,  her  dead  eyes  turned  to  the  west. 
The  dark  room  filled  with  meanings  and  snortings. 

From  the  outer  balcony,  a  ponderous  figure  raised  a  round  bullet 
head  and  coughed  nervously. 

'Do  not  interrupt  this  ventriloquial  necromanciss,  my  friend,' 
it  said  in  English.  'I  opine  that  it  is  very  disturbing  to  you,  but 
no  enlightened  observer  is  jolly  well  upset/ 

.  .  .  /  will  lay  a  plot  for  their  ruin!  0  prophet,  bear  with 
the  unbelievers.  Let  them  alone  a  while!'  Huneefa's  face,  turned 
to  the  northward,  worked  horribly,  and  it  was  as  though  voices 
from  the  ceiling  answered  her. 

Hurree  Babu  returned  to  his  note-book,  balanced  on  the  window 
sill,  but  his  hand  shook.  Huneefa,  in  some  sort  of  drugged  ecstasy, 
wrenched  herself  to  and  fro  as  she  sat  cross-legged  by  Kim's  still 
head,  and  called  upon  devil  after  devil,  in  the  ancient  order  of  the 
ritual,  binding  them  to  avoid  the  boy's  every  action. 

'  With  him  are  the  keys  of  the  secret  things!  None  knoweth  them 
beside  himself.  He  knoweth  that  which  is  in  the  dry  land  and  in  the 
sea!'  Again  broke  out  the  unearthly  whistling  responses. 

'I  —  I  apprehend  it  is  not  at  all  malignant  in  its  operation?' 
said  the  Babu,  watching  the  throat-muscles  quiver  and  jerk  as 
Huneefa  spoke  with  tongues.  'It  —  it  is  not  likely  that  she  has 
killed  the  boy?  If  so,  I  decline  to  be  witness  at  the  trial.  .  .  . 
What  was  the  last  hypothetical  devil  mentioned?' 

'Babuji,'  said  Mahbub  in  the  vernacular.  'I  have  no  regard 
for  the  devils  of  Hind,  but  the  sons  of  Eblis  are  far  otherwise,  and 
whether  they  be  jumalee  (well-affected)  or  jullalee  (terrible)  they 
love  not  Katfirs.' 

'Then  you  think  I  had  better  go?'  said  Hurree  Babu,  half  ris- 


222  KIM 

ing.  'They  are,  of  course,  dematerialized  phenomena.  Spencer 
says ' 

Huneefa's  crisis  passed,  as  these  things  must,  in  a  paroxysm  of 
howling,  with  a  touch  of  froth  at  the  lips.  She  lay  spent  and  mo- 
tionless beside  Kim,  and  the  voices  ceased. 

'Wah!  That  work  is  done.  May  the  boy  be  better  for  it;  and 
Huneefa  is  surely  a  mistress  of  dawut.  Help  haul  her  aside,  Babu. 
Do  not  be  afraid.' 

'How  am  I  to  fear  the  absolutely  non-existent?'  said  Hurree 
Babu,  talking  English  to  reassure  himself.  It  is  an  awful  thing 
still  to  dread  the  magic  that  you  contemptuously  investigate  — 
to  collect  folk-lore  for  the  Royal  Society  with  a  lively  belief  in  all 
powers  of  darkness. 

Mahbub  chuckled.  He  had  been  out  with  Hurree  on  the  road 
ere  now.  'Let  us  finish  the  colouring,'  said  he.  'The  boy  is  well 
protected  if  —  if  the  Lords  of  the  Air  have  ears  to  hear.  I  am  a 
sufi  (free-thinker),  but  when  one  can  get  on  blind  side  of  a  woman,  a 
stallion,  or  a  devil,  why  go  round  to  invite  a  kick?  Set  him  upon 
the  way,  Babu,  and  see  that  old  Red  Hat  does  not  lead  him  be- 
yond our  reach.  I  must  get  back  to  my  horses.' 

'All  raight,'  said  Hurree  Babu.     'He  is  at  present  an  interesting 

spectacle.' 

****** 

About  third  cock-crow,  Kim  woke  after  a  sleep  of  thousands  of 
years.  Huneefa,  in  her  corner,  snored  heavily,  but  Mahbub  was 
gone. 

'I  hope  you  were  not  frightened,'  said  an  oily  voice  at  his  elbow. 
'  I  superintended  entire  operation,  which  was  most  interesting  from 
ethnological  point  of  view.  It  was  high-class  dawut? 


KIM  223 

'Huh!'  said  Kim,  recognizing  Hurree  Babu,  who  smiled  in- 
gratiatingly. 

'And  also  I  had  honour  to  bring  down  from  Mister  Lurgan  your 
present  costume  —  I  am  not  in  the  habit  offeecially  of  carrying 
such  gauds  to  subordinates,  but'  —  he  giggled  —  'your  case  is 
noted  as  exceptional  on  the  books.  I  hope  Mr.  Lurgan  will  note 
my  action.' 

Kim  yawned  and  stretched  himself.  It  was  good  to  turn  and 
twist  within  loose  clothes  once  again. 

'What  is  this?'  He  looked  curiously  at  the  heavy  duffle-stuff 
loaded  with  the  scents  of  the  far  North. 

'Oho!  That  is  inconspicuous  dress  of  chela  attached  to  service 
of  lamaistic  lama.  Complete  in  every  particular,'  said  Hurree 
Babu,  rolling  into  the  balcony  to  clean  his  teeth  at  a  goglet.  'I 
am  of  opeenion  it  is  not  your  old  gentleman's  precise  religion,  but 
rather  sub-variant  of  same.  I  have  contributed  notes  to  Asiatic 
Quarterly  Review  on  these  subjects.  Now  it  is  curious  that  the 
old  gentleman  himself  is  totally  devoid  of  religiosity.  He  is  not  a 
damn  particular.' 

'Do  you  know  him?' 

Hurree  Babu  held  up  his  hand  to  show  he  was  engaged  in  the 
prescribed  rites  that  accompany  tooth-cleaning  and  such  things 
among  decently  bred  Bengalis.  Then  he  recited  in  English  an 
Arya-Somaj  prayer  of  a  theistical  nature,  and  stuffed  his  mouth 
with  pan  and  betel. 

'Oah  yes.  I  have  met  him  several  times  at  Benares,  and  also 
at  Buddh-Gaya,  to  interrogate  him  on  religious  points  and  devil- 
worship.  He  is  pure  agnostic  in  my  opinion,  same  as  me.' 

Huneefa  stirred  in  her  sleep,  and  Hurree  Babu  jumped  ner- 
vously to  the  copper  incense-burner,  all  black  and  discoloured  in 


224  K  l  M 

morning  light,  rubbed  a  finger  in  the  accumulated  lampblack,  and 
drew  it  diagonally  across  his  face. 

'Who  has  died  in  thy  house?'  asked  Kim  in  the  vernacular. 

'None.  But  she  may  have  the  evil  eye  —  that  sorceress,'  the 
Babu  replied. 

'  What  dost  thou  do  now,  then  ? ' 

'  I  will  set  thee  on  thy  way  to  Benares,  if  thou  goest  thither,  and 
tell  thee  what  must  be  known  by  Us.' 

'I  go.  At  what  hour  runs  the  te-rain?'  He  rose  to  his  feet, 
looked  round  the  desolate  chamber  at  the  yellow  wax  face  of 
Huneef a  as  the  low  sun  stole  across  the  floor.  '  Is  there  money  to 
be  paid  that  witch?' 

'No.     She  has  charmed  thee  against  all  devils  and  all  dangers 
-  in  the  name  of  her  devils.     It  was  Mahbub's  desire.'     In  Eng- 
lish:    'He  is  highly  obsolete,  7  think,  to  indulge  in  such  super- 
steetion.     Why,  it  is  all  ventri/oquy.     Belly-speak  —  eh?' 

Kim  snapped  his  fingers  mechanically  to  avert  whatever  evil  — 
Mahbub,  he  knew,  meditated  none  —  might  have  crept  in  through 
Huneefa's  ministrations;  and  Hurree  giggled  once  more.  But  as 
he  crossed  the  room  he  was  careful  not  to  step  in  Huneefa's  blotched, 
squat  shadow  on  the  boards.  Witches  —  when  their  time  is  on 
them  -  -  can  lay  hold  upon  the  heels  of  a  man's  soul  if  he  does  that. 

'Now  you  must  well  listen,'  said  the  Babu  when  they  were  in 
the  fresh  air.  'Part  of  these  ceremonies  which  we  witnessed  they 
include  supply  of  effeecient  amulet  to  those  of  our  Department.  If 
you  feel  in  your  neck  you  will  find  one  small  silver  amulet,  verree 
cheap.  That  is  ours.  Do  you  understand?' 

'Oah  yes,  hawa-dilli''  (a  heart  lifter),  said  Kim,  feeling  at  his 
neck. 

'Huneef a,  she  makes  them  for  two  rupees  twelve  annas  with  — 


KIM  225 

oh,  all  sorts  of  exorcisms.  They  are  quite  common,  except  they 
are  partially  black  enamel,  and  there  is  a  paper  inside  each  one  full 
of  names  of  local  saints  and  such  things.  Thatt  is  Huneefa's  look- 
out, you  see?  Huneefa  makes  them  onlee  for  us,  but  in  case  she 
does  not,  when  we  get  them  we  put  in,  before  issue,  one  small  piece 
of  turquoise.  Mr.  Lurgan,  he  gives  them.  There  is  no  other 
source  of  supply;  but  it  was  me  invented  all  this.  It  is  strictly 
unofFeecial  of  course,  but  seems  convenient.  The  turquoise  is 
wrapped  in  the  paper.  .  .  .  Yes,  that  is  road  to  railway 
station.  .  .  .  Now  suppose  you  go  with  the  lama,  or  with  me, 
I  hope,  some  day,  or  with  Mahbub.  Suppose  we  get  into  a  damn- 
tight  place.  I  am  a  fearful  man  —  most  fearful  —  but  I  tell  you 
I  have  been  in  damn-tight  places  more  than  hairs  on  my  head. 
You  say:  "I  am  Son  of  the  Charm."  Verree  good.' 

'I  do  not  understand  quite.  We  must  not  be  heard  talking 
English  here.' 

'That  is  all  right.  I  am  only  Babu  showing  off  my  English  to 
you.  All  we  Babus  talk  English  to  show  off,'  said  Hurree,  flinging 
his  shoulder-cloth  jauntily.  'As  I  was  about  to  say,  "Son  of  the 
Charm"  means  that  you  may  be  member  of  the  Sat  Bhai  —  the 
Seven  Brothers,  which  is  Hindi  and  Tantric.  It  is  popularly  sup- 
posed to  be  extinct  society,  but  I  have  written  notes  to  show  it  is 
still  existent.  You  see  it  is  all  my  invention.  Verree  good.  Sat 
Bhai  has  many  members,  and  perhaps  before  they  damn-well-cut- 
your-throat  they  may  give  you  just  a  chance  for  life.  That  is 
useful,  anyhow.  And,  moreover,  these  foolish  natives  —  if  they 
are  not  too  excited  —  they  always  stop  to  think  before  they  kill  a 
man  who  says  he  belongs  to  any  speecific  organization.  You  see? 
You  say  then  when  you  are  in  tight  place,  "  I  am  Son  of  the  Charm," 
and  you  get  —  perhaps  —  ah  —  your  second  wind.  That  is  only 


226  KIM 

in  extreme  instances  —  to  open  negotiations  with  a  stranger.  Can 
you  quite  see?  Verree  good.  But  suppose  now,  I,  or  any  one  of 
the  Department,  come  to  you  dressed  quite  different.  You  would 
not  know  me  at  all  unless  I  choose,  I  bet  you.  Some  day  I  will 
prove  it.  I  come  as  Ladakhi  trader  —  oh  anything  —  and  I  say 
to  you:  "You  want  to  buy  precious  stones?"  You  say:  "Do 
I  look  like  a  man  who  buys  precious  stones  ?  "  Then  I  say :  "  Even 
verree  poor  man  can  buy  a  turquoise  or  tarkeean." 

' That  is  kichree  —  vegetable  curry,'  said  Kim. 

'Of  course  it  is.  You  say:  "Let  me  see  the  tarkeean.™  Then  I 
say:  "It  was  cooked  by  a  woman,  and  perhaps  it  is  bad  for  your 
caste."  Then  you  say:  "There  is  no  caste  when  men  go  to  — 
look  for  tarkeean"  You  stop  a  little  between  those  words,  "to  — 
look."  That  is  the  whole  secret.  The  little  stop  before  the 
words.' 

Kim  repeated  the  test-sentence. 

'That  is  all  right.  Then  I  will  show  you  my  turquoise  if  there  is 
time,  and  then  you  know  who  I  am,  and  then  we  exchange  views 
and  documents  and  those  things.  And  so  it  is  with  any  other  man 
with  us.  We  talk  sometimes  about  turquoises  and  sometimes 
about  tarkeean,  but  always  with  that  little  stop  in  the  words.  It 
is  very  easy.  First,  "  Son  of  the  Charm,"  if  you  are  in  a  tight  place. 
Perhaps  that  may  help  you  —  perhaps  not.  Then  what  I  have 
told  you  about  the  tarkeean,  if  you  want  to  transact  offeecial  busi- 
ness with  a  strange  man.  Of  course,  at  present  you  have  no  offeecial 
business.  You  are  -  -  ah,  ha !  —  supernumerary  on  probation.  Quite 
unique  specimen.  If  you  were  Asiatic  of  birth  you  might  be  em- 
ployed right  off;  but  this  half-year  of  leave  is  to  make  you  de- 
Englishized,  you  see?  The  lama,  he  expects  you,  because  I  have 
demi-offeecially  informed  him  you  have  passed  all  your  examina- 


KIM  227 

tions,  and  will  soon  obtain  Government  appointment.  Oh  ho! 
Excuse  me,  there  is  one  thing  more.  The  amulet  being  unoffeecial 
is  not  provided  by  Department.  I  get  no  profit,  but  it  costs 
two  rupees  twelve  annas.  I  pay  that.  Now  I  shall  say  good-bye, 
my  dear  fellow,  and  I  hope,  you  —  ah  —  will  come  out  top  side  all 
right.' 

Hurree  Babu  stepped  back  a  pace  or  two  into  the  crowd  at  the 
entrance  of  Benares  station  and  —  was  gone.  Kim  drew  a  deep 
breath  and  hugged  himself  all  over.  The  nickel-plated  revolver 
he  could  feel  in  the  bosom  of  his  sad-coloured  robe,  the  amulet  was 
on  his  neck;  begging-gourd,  rosary,  the  ghost-dagger  (Mr.  Lur- 
gan  had  forgotten  nothing)  were  all  to  hand,  with  medicine,  paint- 
box, and  compass,  and  in  a  worn  old  purse-belt  embroidered  with 
porcupine  quill-patterns  lay  a  month's  pay.  Kings  could  be  no 
richer.  He  bought  sweetmeats  in  a  leaf-cup  from  a  Hindu  trader, 
and  ate  them  with  glad  rapture  till  a  policeman  ordered  him  off  the 
steps. 


CHAPTER  XI 

Give  the  man  who  is  not  made 

To  his  trade 

Swords  to  fling  and  catch  again, 
Coins  to  ring  and  snatch  again, 
Men  to  harm  and  cure  again, 
Snakes  to  charm  and  lure  again  — 
He'll  be  hurt  by  his  own  blade, 
By  his  serpents  disobeyed, 
By  his  clumsiness  bewrayed, 
By  the  people  mocked  to  scorn  — 

So  'tis  not  with  juggler  born. 
Pinch  of  dust  or  withered  flower, 

Chance-flung  fruit  or  borrowed  staff, 
Serve  his  need  and  shore  his  power, 

Bind  the  spell,  or  loose  the  laugh! 

But  a  man  who,  etc..  Op.  15. 

FOLLOWED  a  sudden  natural  reaction. 

'Now  am  I  alone-  -all  alone,'  he  thought.  'In  all  India  is 
no  one  so  alone  as  I !  If  I  die  to-day,  who  shall  bring  the  news  — 
and  to  whom?  If  I  live  and  God  is  good,  there  will  be  a  price 
upon  my  head,  for  I  am  a  Son  of  the  Charm  —  I,  Kim. ' 

A  very  few  white  people,  but  many  Asiatics,  can  throw  them- 
selves into  a  mazement  as  it  were  by  repeating  their  own  names 
over  and  over  again  to  themselves,  letting  the  mind  go  free  upon 
speculation  as  to  what  is  called  personal  identity.  When  one 
grows  older,  the  power,  usually,  departs,  but  while  it  lasts  it 
may  descend  upon  a  man  at  any  moment. 

228 


KIM  229 

'  Who  is  Kim  —  Kim  —  Kim  ? ' 

He  squatted  in  a  corner  of  the  clanging  waiting-room,  rapt 
from  all  other  thoughts;  hands  folded  in  lap,  and  pupils  contracted 
to  pin-points.  In  a  minute  —  in  another  half  second  —  he  felt 
he  would  arrive  at  the  solution  of  the  tremendous  puzzle;  but 
here,  as  always  happens,  his  mind  dropped  away  from  those 
heights  with  the  rush  of  a  wounded  bird,  and  passing  his  hand 
before  his  eyes,  he  shook  his  head. 

A  long-haired  Hindu  bairagi  (holy  man),  who  had  just  bought 
a  ticket,  halted  before  him  at  that  moment  and  stared  intently. 

' I  also  have  lost  it,'  he  said  sadly.  'It  is  one  of  the  gates  to 
the  Way,  but  for  me  it  has  been  shut  many  years. ' 

'What  is  the  talk?'  said  Kim,  abashed. 

'Thou  wast  wondering  there  in  thy  spirit  what  manner  of  thing 
thy  soul  might  be.  The  seizure  came  of  a  sudden.  /  know.  Who 
should  know  but  I?  Whither  goest  thou?' 

'Toward  Kashi'  (Benares). 

'There  are  no  Gods  there.  I  have  proved  them.  I  go  to 
Prayag  (Allahabad)  for  the  fifth  time  —  seeking  the  road  to 
Enlightenment.  Of  what  faith  art  thou?' 

'I  too  am  a  Seeker,'  said  Kim,  using  one  of  the  lama's  pet 
words.  'Though'  —  he  forgot  his  Northern  dress  for  the  mo- 
ment —  'though  Allah  alone  knoweth  what  I  seek.' 

The  old  fellow  slipped  the  bairagi's  crutch  under  his  armpit 
and  sat  down  on  a  patch  of  ruddy  leopard's  skin  as  Kim  rose  at 
the  call  for  the  Benares  train. 

'Go  in  hope,  little  brother,'  he  said.  'It  is  a  long  road  to 
the  feet  of  the  One;  but  thither  do  we  all  travel.' 

Kim  did  not  feel  so  lonely  after  this,  and  ere  he  had  sat  out 
twenty  miles  in  the  crowded  compartment,  was  cheering  his 


230  KIM 

neighbours  with  a  string  of  most  wonderful  yarns  about  his  own 
and  his  master's  magical  gifts. 

Benares  struck  him  as  a  peculiarly  filthy  city,  though  it  was 
pleasant  to  find  how  his  cloth  was  respected.  At  least  one- 
third  of  the  population  prays  eternally  to  some  group  or  other  of 
the  many  million  deities,  and  so  reveres  every  sort  of  holy  man. 
Kim  was  guided  to  the  Temple  of  the  Tirthankers,  about  a  mile 
outside  the  city,  near  Sarnath,  by  a  chance-met  Punjabi  farmer 
—  a  Kamboh  from  Jullunder-way  who  had  appealed  in  vain  to 
every  God  of  his  homestead  to  cure  his  small  son,  and  was  trying 
Benares  as  a  last  resort. 

'Thou  art  from  the  North?'  he  asked,  shouldering  through  the 
press  of  the  narrow,  stinking  streets  much  like  his  own  pet  bull 
at  home. 

'Ay,  but  I  know  the  Punjab.  My  mother  was  a  Pahareen, 
but  my  father  came  from  Amritzar  —  by  Jandiala,'  said  Kim, 
oiling  his  ready  tongue  for  the  needs  of  the  road. 

'Jandiala  —  Jullunder?  Oho!  Then  we  be  neighbours  in  some 
sort,  as  it  were.'  He  nodded  tenderly  to  the  wailing  child  in  his 
arms.  'Whom  dost  thou  serve?' 

'A  most  holy  man  at  the  Temple  of  the  Tirthankers.' 

'They  are  all  most  holy  and  —  most  greedy,'  said  the  Jat  with 
bitterness.  'I  have  walked  the  pillars  and  trodden  the  temples  till 
my  feet  are  flayed,  and  the  child  is  no  whit  better.  And  the  mother 
being  sick  too.  .  .  .  Hush,  then,  little  one.  .  .  .  We  changed 
his  name  when  the  fever  came.  We  put  him  into  girl's  clothes. 
There  was  nothing  we  did  not  do,  except  —  I  said  to  his  mother 
when  she  bundled  me  off  to  Benares  —  she  should  have  come  with 
me  -  - 1  said  Sakhi  Sarwar  Sultan  would  serve  us  best.  We  know 
his  generosity,  but  these  down-country  Gods  are  strangers. ' 


THEY  ARE  ALL  MOST  HOLY  AND — MOST  GREEDY    ...    I  HAVE  WALKED  THE  PILLARS  AND 
TRODDEN  THE  TEMPLES  TILL  MY  FEET  ARE  FLAYED,  AND  THE  CHILD  IS  NO  WHIT  BETTER* 


KIM  231 

The  child  turned  on  the  cushion  of  the  huge  corded  arms  and 
looked  at  Kim  through  heavy  eyelids. 

'And  was  it  all  worthless?'     Kim  asked,  with  easy  interest. 

'All  worthless  —  all  worthless,'  said  the  child,  lips  cracking  with 
fever. 

'The  Gods  have  given  him  a  good  mind,  at  least, '  said  the  father 
proudly.  'To  think  he  should  have  listened  so  quietly.  Yonder 
is  thy  temple.  Now  I  am  a  poor  man,  —  many  priests  have  dealt 
with  me,  —  but  my  son  is  my  son,  and  if  a  gift  to  thy  master  can 
cure  him  —  I  am  at  my  very  wits'  end. ' 

Kim  considered  for  a  while,  tingling  with  pride.  Three  years 
ago  he  would  have  made  a  prompt  profit  on  the  situation  and 
gone  his  way  without  a  thought;  but  now  the  very  respect  the  Jat 
paid  him  proved  that  he  was  a  man.  Moreover,  he  had  tasted 
fever  once  or  twice  already,  and  knew  enough  to  recognize  star- 
vation when  he  saw  it. 

'Call  him  forth  and  I  will  give  him  a  bond  on  my  best  yoke,  so 
that  the  child  is  cured.' 

Kim  halted  at  the  earned  outer  door  of  the  temple.  A  white- 
clad  Oswal  bunnya  from  Ajmir,  his  sins  of  usury  new  wiped  out, 
asked  him  what  he  did. 

'  I  am  chela  to  Teshoo  Lama,  an  Holy  One  from  Bhotiyal  — 
within  there.  He  bade  me  come.  I  wait.  Tell  him. ' 

'Do  not  forget  the  child,'  cried  the  importunate  Jat  over  his 
shoulder,  and  then  bellowed  in  Punjabi:  'O  Holy  One  —  O 
disciple  of  the  Holy  One  —  O  Gods  above  all  the  worlds  —  behold 
affliction  sitting  at  the  gate.'  That  cry  is  so  common  in  Benares 
that  the  passers-by  never  turned  their  heads. 

The  Oswal,  at  peace  with  mankind,  carried  the  message  into 
the  darkness  behind  him,  and  the  easy,  uncounted  Eastern 


232  KIM 

minutes  slid  by;  for  the  lama  was  asleep  in  his  cell,  and  no  priest 
would  wake  him.  When  the  click  of  his  rosary  again  broke  the 
hush  of  the  inner  court  where  the  calm  images  of  the  Arhats  stand, 
a  novice  whispered,  'Thy  chela  is  here,'  and  the  old  man  strode 
forth,  forgetting  the  end  of  that  prayer. 

Hardly  had  the  tall  figure  shown  in  the  doorway  than  the  Jat 
ran  before  him,  and,  lifting  up  the  child,  cried:  'Look  upon  this, 
Holy  One;  and  if  the  Gods  will,  he  lives  —  he  lives!' 

He  fumbled  in  his  waist-belt  and  drew  out  a  small  silver  coin. 

'What  is  this?'  The  lama's  eyes  turned  to  Kim.  It  was 
noticeable  he  spoke  far  clearer  Urdu  than  long  ago,  under  Zam- 
Zammeh;  but  the  father  would  allow  no  private  talk. 

'It  is  no  more  than  a  fever,'  said  Kim.  'The  child  is  not  well 
fed.' 

'He  sickens  at  everything,  and  his  mother  is  not  here.' 

'If  it  be  permitted,  I  may  cure,  Holy  One.' 

'What!  Have  they  made  thee  a  healer?  Wait  here,'  said 
the  lama,  and  he  sat  down  by  the  Jat  upon  the  lowest  step  of  the 
temple,  while  Kim,  looking  out  of  the  corner  of  his  eyes,  slowly 
opened  the  little  betel-box.  He  had  dreamed  dreams  at  school  of 
returning  to  the  lama  as  a  Sahib  —  of  chaffing  the  old  man  before 
he  revealed  himself  —  boy's  dreams  all.  There  was  more  drama 
in  this  abstracted,  brow-puckered  search  through  the  tabloid 
bottles,  with  a  pause  here  and  there  for  thought  and  a  muttered 
invocation  between  whiles.  Quinine  he  had  in  tablets,  and  dark 
brown  meat  lozenges  —  beef  most  probably,  but  that  was  not  his 
business.  The  little  thing  would  not  eat,  but  it  sucked  at  a  lozenge 
greedily,  and  said  it  liked  the  salt  taste. 

'Take  then  these  six,'  Kim  handed  them  to  the  man.  'Praise 
the  Gods,  and  boil  three  in  milk;  other  three  in  water.  After  he 


KIM  233 

has  drunk  the  milk  give  him  this  (it  was  the  half  of  a  quinine  pill), 
and  wrap  him  warm.  Give  him  the  water  of  the  other  three,  and 
the  other  half  of  this  white  pill  when  he  wakes.  Meantime,  here 
is  another  brown  medicine  that  he  may  suck  at  on  the  way  home. ' 

'Gods!     What  wisdom,'  said  the  Kamboh,  snatching. 

It  was  as  much  as  Kim  could  remember  of  his  own  treatment  in 
a  bout  of  autumn  malaria  —  if  you  except  the  patter  that  he  added 
to  impress  the  lama. 

'Now  go!     Come  again  in  the  morning.' 

'But  the  price  —  the  price,'  said  the  Jat,  and  threw  back  his 
sturdy  shoulders.  'My  son  is  my  son.  Now  that  he  will  be 
whole  again,  how  shall  I  go  back  to  his  mother  and  say  I  took 
help  by  the  wayside  and  did  not  even  give  a  bowl  of  curds  in 
return?' 

'They  are  alike,  these  Jats,'  said  Kim  softly.  'The  Jat  stood 
on  his  dunghill  and  the  King's  elephants  went  by.  "O  driver, J! 
said  he,  "what  will  you  sell  those  little  donkeys  for?" 

The  Jat  burst  into  a  roar  of  laughter,  stifled  with  apologies  to 
the  lama.  '  It  is  the  saying  of  my  own  country  —  the  very  talk  of 
it.  So  are  we  Jats  all.  I  will  come  to-morrow  with  the  child; 
and  the  blessing  of  the  Gods  of  the  Homesteads  —  who  are  good 
little  Gods  —  be  on  you  both.  .  .  .  Now,  son,  we  grow  strong 
again.  Do  not  spit  it  out,  little  Princeling!  King  of  my  Heart, 
do  not  spit  it  out,  and  we  shall  be  strong  men,  wrestlers  and  club- 
wielders,  by  morning.' 

He  moved  away,  crooning  and  mumbling.  The  lama  turned 
to  Kim,  and  all  the  loving  old  soul  of  him  looked  out  through  his 
narrow  eyes. 

'To  heal  the  sick  is  to  acquire  merit;  but  first  one  gets  knowledge. 
That  was  wisely  done,  O  Friend  of  all  the  World.' 


"234  K  I  M 

CI  was  made  wise  by  thee,  Holy  One,'  said  Kim,  forgetting  the 
little  play  just  ended;  forgetting  St.  Xavier's;  forgetting  his  white 
blood;  forgetting  even  the  Great  Game  as  he  stooped,  Moham- 
medan fashion,  to  touch  his  master's  feet  in  the  dust  of  the  Jain 
temple.  'My  teaching  I  owe  to  thee.  I  have  eaten  thy  breatl 
three  years.  My  time  is  finished.  I  am  loosed  from  the  schools.1 
I  come  to  thee.' 

'Herein  is  my  reward.  Enter!  Enter!  And  is  all  well?' 
They  passed  to  the  inner  court,  where  the  afternoon  sun  sloped 
golden  across.  'Stand  that  I  may  see.  So!'  He  peered  criti- 
cally. 'It  is  no  longer  a  child,  but  a  man,  ripened  in  wisdom, 
walking  as  a  physician.  I  did  well  -  - 1  did  well  when  I  gave  thee 
up  to  the  armed  men  on  that  black  night.  Dost  thou  remember 
our  first  day  under  Zam-Zammeh?' 

'Ay,'  said  Kim.  'Dost  thou  remember  when  I  leapt  off  tho 
carriage  the  first  day  I  went  to  - 

'The  Gates  of  Learning?  Truly.  And  the  day  that  we  ate  the 
cakes  together  at  the  back  of  the  river  by  Nucklao.  Aha!  Many 
times  hast  thou  begged  for  me,  but  that  day  I  begged  for  thee. ' 

'Good  reason,'  quoth  Kim.  'I  was  then  a  scholar  in  the  Gates 
of  Learning,  and  attired  as  a  Sahib.  Do  not  forget,  Holy  One,' 
he  went  on  playfully,  '  I  am  still  a  Sahib  —  by  thy  favour. ' 

'True.  And  a  Sahib  in  most  high  esteem.  Come  to  my  cell, 
chela. ' 

'How  is  that  known  to  thee?' 

The  lama  smiled.  'First  by  means  of  letters  from  the  kindly 
priest  whom  we  met  in  the  camp  of  armed  men;  but  he  is  now  gone 
to  his  own  country,  and  I  send  the  money  to  his  brother.'  Colonel 
Creighton,  who  had  succeeded  to  the  trusteeship  when  Father 
Victor  went  to  England  with  the  Mavericks,  was  hardly  the 


KIM  235 

chaplain's  brother.  'But  I  do  not  well  understand  Sahibs'  letters. 
They  must  be  interpreted  to  me.  I  chose  a  surer  way.  Many 
times  when  I  returned  from  my  Search  to  this  temple,  which  has 
always  been  a  nest  to  me,  there  came  one  seeking  Enlightenment 
—  a  man  from  Leh  —  that  had  been,  he  said,  a  Hindu,  but  wearied 
of  all  those  Gods. '  The  lama  pointed  to  the  Arhats. 

'A  fat  man?'  said  Kim,  a  twinkle  in  his  eye. 

'Very  fat;  but  I  perceived  in  a  little  his  mind  was  wholly  given 
up  to  useless  things  —  such  as  devils  and  charms  and  the  form  and 
fashion  of  our  tea-drinkings  in  the  monasteries,  and  by  what  road 
we  initiated  the  novices.  A  man  abounding  in  questions;  but  he 
was  a  friend  of  thine,  chela.  He  told  me  that  thou  wast  on  the  road 
to  much  honour  as  a  scribe.  And  I  see  thou  art  a  physician. ' 

'Yes,  that  am  I  —  a  scribe,  when  I  am  a  Sahib,  but  it  is  set 
aside  when  I  come  as  thy  disciple.  I  have  accomplished  the  years 
appointed  for  a  Sahib.' 

'As  it  were  a  novice?'  said  the  lama,  nodding  his  head.  'Art 
thou  freed  from  the  schools  ?  I  would  not  have  thee  unripe. ' 

'Even  so.  In  due  time  I  take  service  under  the  Government 
as  a  scribe ' 

'Not  as  a  warrior.    That  is  well.' 

'But  first  I  come  to  wander  —  with  thee.  Therefore  I  am  here. 
Who  begs  for  thee,  these  days  ? '  he  went  on  quickly.  The  ice  was 
thin. 

'Very  often  I  beg  myself;  but,  as  thou  knowest,  I  am  seldom 
here,  except  when  I  come  to  look  again  at  my  disciple.  From  one 
end  to  another  of  Hind  have  I  travelled  afoot  and  in  the  te-rain. 
A  great  and  a  wonderful  land!  But  here,  when  I  put  in,  is  as 
though  I  were  on  my  own  Bhotiyal.' 

He  looked  round  the  little  clean  cell  complacently.    A  low 


236  KIM 

cushion  gave  him  a  seat,  on  which  he  had  disposed  himself  in  the 
cross-legged  attitude  of  the  Bodhisat  emerging  from  meditation; 
a  black  teakwood  table,  not  twenty  inches  high,  and  set  with 
copper  tea-cups,  was  before  him.  In  one  corner  stood  a  tiny  altar, 
also  of  heavily  carved  teak,  bearing  a  copper-gilt  image  of  the 
seated  Buddha  and  fronted  by  a  lamp,  an  incense-holder,  and  a  pair 
of  copper  flower-pots. 

1  The  Keeper  of  the  Images  in  the  Wonder  House  acquired  merit 
by  giving  me  these  a  year  since,'  said  the  lama,  following  Kim's 
eye.  'When  one  is  far  from  one's  own  land  such  things  carry 
remembrance;  and  we  must  reverence  the  Lord  for  that  He  showed 
the  Way.  See!'  he  pointed  to  a  curiously  built  mound  of  coloured 
rice  crowned  with  a  fantastic  metal  ornament.  'When  I  was 
abbot  in  my  own  place  —  before  I  came  to  better  knowledge  —  I 
made  that  offering  daily.  It  is  the  Sacrifice  of  the  Universe  to 
the  Lord.  Thus  do  we  of  Bhotiyal  offer  all  the  world  daily  to  the 
Excellent  Law.  And  I  do  it  even  now,  though  I  know  that  the 
Excellent  One  is  beyond  all  pinchings  and  pattings.'  He  snuffed 
from  his  gourd. 

'It  is  well  done,  Holy  One,'  Kim  murmured,  sinking  at  ease  on 
the  cushions,  very  happy  and  rather  tired. 

'And  also,'  the  old  man  chuckled,  'I  write  pictures  of  the  Wheel 
of  Life.  Three  days  to  a  picture.  I  was  busied  on  it  —  or  it  may 
be  I  shut  my  eyes  a  little  —  when  they  brought  word  of  thee.  It 
is  good  to  have  thee  here:  I  will  show  thee  my  art  —  not  for  pride's 
sake,  but  because  thou  must  learn.  The  Sahibs  have  not  all  this 
world's  wisdom.' 

He  drew  from  under  the  table  a  sheet  of  strangely  scented 
yellow  Chinese  paper,  the  brushes,  and  the  slab  of  India  ink.  In 
cleanest,  severest  outline  he  had  traced  the  Great  Wheel  with  its 


K  I  M  237 

six  spokes,  whose  centre  is  the  conjoined  Hog,  Snake,  and  Dove 
(Ignorance,  Anger,  and  Lust),  and  whose  compartments  are  all 
the  heavens  and  hells,  and  all  the  chances  of  human  life.  Men 
say  that  the  Bodhisat  Himself  first  drew  it  with  grains  of  rice  upon 
dust,  to  teach  His  disciples  the  cause  of  things.  Many  ages  have 
crystallized  it  into  a  most  wonderful  convention  crowded  with 
hundreds  of  little  figures  whose  every  line  carries  a  meaning.  Few 
can  translate  the  picture  parable:  there  are  not  twenty  in  all  the 
world  who  can  draw  it  surely  without  a  copy:  of  those  who  can 
both  draw  and  expound  are  but  three. 

'I  have  a  little  learned  to  draw/  said  Kim.  'But  this  is  a  mar- 
vel beyond  marvels. ' 

'I  have  written  it  for  many  years,'  said  the  lama.  'Time  was 
when  I  could  write  it  all  between  one  lamp-lighting  and  the  next. 
I  will  teach  thee  the  art  —  after  due  preparation;  and  I  will  show 
thee  the  meaning  of  the  Wheel. ' 

'We  take  the  road,  then?' 

'The  road  and  our  Search.  I  am  but  waiting  for  thee.  It  was 
made  plain  to  me  in  a  hundred  dreams  —  notably  one  that  came 
upon  the  night  of  the  day  that  the  Gates  of  Learning  first  shut  — 
that  without  thee  I  should  never  find  my  River.  Again  and  again, 
as  thou  knowest,  I  put  this  from  me,  fearing  an  illusion.  There- 
fore I  would  not  take  thee  with  me  that  day  at  Lucknow,  when  we 
ate  the  cakes.  I  would  not  take  thee  till  the  time  was  ripe  and 
auspicious.  From  the  hills  to  the  sea,  from  the  sea  to  the  hills 
have  I  gone,  but  it  was  vain.  Then  I  remembered  the  Jataka. 9 

He  told  Kim  the  story  of  the  elephant  with  the  leg-iron,  as  he 
had  told  it  so  often  to  the  Jain  priests. 

'Further  testimony  is  not  needed,'  he  ended  serenely.  'Thou 
wast  sent  for  an  aid.  That  aid  removed,  my  Search  came  to 


238  KIM 

naught.  Therefore  we  will  go  out  again  together,  and  our  Search 
is  sure.' 

'Whither  go  we?' 

'What  matters,  Friend  of  all  the  World?  The  Search,  I  say, 
is  sure.  If  need  be,  the  River  will  break  from  the  ground  before 
us.  I  acquired  merit  when  I  sent  thee  to  the  Gates  of  Learning, 
and  gave  thee  the  jewel  that  is  Wisdom.  Thou  didst  return,  I 
saw  even  now,  a  follower  of  Sakyamuni,  the  Physician,  whose 
altars  are  many  in  Bhotiyal.  It  is  sufficient.  We  are  now 
together,  and  all  things  are  as  they  were  —  Friend  of  all  the  World 
—  Friend  of  the  Stars  —  my  chela.9 

Then  they  talked  of  matters  secular;  but  it  was  noticeable  that 
the  lama  never  asked  him  for  any  details  of  his  life  at  St.  Xavier's 
nor  showed  the  faintest  curiosity  as  to  the  manners  and  customs  cf 
Sahibs.  His  mind  seemed  all  in  the  past,  and  he  revived  every 
step  of  their  wonderful  first  journey  together,  rubbing  his  hands 
and  chuckling,  till  it  pleased  him  to  curl  himself  up  into  the  sudden 
sleep  of  old  age. 

Kim  watched  the  last  of  the  sunshine  fade  out  of  the  court,  and 
played  with  his  ghost-dagger  and  rosary.  The  clamour  of  Benares, 
oldest  of  all  earth's  cities  awake  before  the  Gods,  day  and  night, 
beat  round  the  walls  as  the  roar  of  a  sea  round  a  break-water. 
Now  and  again,  a  Jain  priest  crossed  the  court,  with  some  small 
offering  to  the  images,  and  swept  the  path  about  him  lest  by  chance 
he  should  crush  the  life  out  of  a  living  thing.  A  lamp  twinkled, 
and  there  followed  the  sound  of  a  prayer.  Kim  watched  the  stars 
as  they  rose  one  after  another  in  the  still,  sticky  dark,  till  he  fell 
asleep  at  the  foot  of  the  altar.  That  night  he  dreamed  in  Hindu- 
stance,  with  never  an  English  word.  .  .  . 

'Holy  One,  there  is  the  child  to  whom  we  gave  the  medicine,' 


KIM  239 

he  said,  about  three  o'clock  in  the  morning,  when  the  lama,  also 
waking  from  dreams,  would  have  fared  forth  on  pilgrimage.  'The 
Jat  will  be  here  at  the  dawn.' 

*I  am  well  answered.  In  my  haste  I  would  have  done  a  wrong.' 
He  sat  down  on  the  cushions  and  returned  to  his  rosary.  *  Surely 
old  folk  are  as  children,'  he  said  pathetically.  'They  desire  a 
matter.  Behold,  it  must  be  done  at  once,  or  they  fret  and  weep! 
Many  times  when  I  was  upon  the  road  I  have  been  ready  to  stamp 
with  my  feet  at  the  hindrance  of  an  ox-cart  in  the  way,  or  a  mere 
cloud  of  dust.  It  was  not  so  when  I  was  a  man  —  a  long  time  ago. 
None  the  less  it  is  wrongful ' 

*  But  thou  art  indeed  old,  Holy  One. ' 

'The  thing  was  done.  A  Cause  was  put  out  into  the  world, 
and,  old  or  young,  sick  or  sound,  knowing  or  unknowing,  who  can 
rein  in  the  effect  of  that  Cause?  Does  the  Wheel  hang  still  if  a 
child  spin  it  —  or  a  drunkard?  Chela,  this  is  a  great  and  a  terrible 
world.' 

'I  think  it  good, '  Kim  yawned.  'What  is  there  to  eat?  I  have 
not  eaten  since  yesterday  even. ' 

'I  had  forgotten  thy  need.  Yonder  is  good  Bhotiyal  tea  and 
cold  rice.' 

'We  cannot  walk  far  on  such  stuff. '  Kim  felt  all  the  European's 
lust  for  flesh-meat,  which  is  not  accessible  in  the  Jain  temple. 
Yet,  instead  of  going  out  at  once  with  the  begging-bowl,  he  stayed 
his  stomach  on  slabs  of  cold  rice  till  the  full  dawn.  It  brought 
the  farmer,  voluble,  stuttering  with  gratitude. 

'In  the  night  the  fever  broke  and  the  sweat  came,'  he  cried. 
'Feel  here  —  his  skin  is  fresh  and  new!  He  esteemed  the  salt 
lozenges,  and  took  milk  with  greed. '  He  drew  the  cloth  from  the 
child's  face,  and  it  smiled  sleepily  at  Kim.  A  little  knot  of  Jain 


24o  KIM 

priests,  silent  but  all  observant,  gathered  by  the  temple  door. 
They  knew,  and  Kim  knew  that  they  knew,  how  the  old  lama  had 
met  his  disciple.  Being  courteous  folk,  they  had  not  obtruded 
themselves  overnight  by  presence,  word,  or  gesture.  Wherefore 
Kim  repaid  them  as  the  sun  rose. 

'Thank  the  Gods  of  the  Jains,  brother,'  he  said,  not  knowing 
how  the  Gods  were  named.  'The  fever  is  indeed  broken.' 

'Look!  See!'  The  lama  beamed  in  the  background  upon  his 
hosts  of  three  years.  'Was  there  ever  such  a  chela!  He  follows 
our  Lord  the  Healer. ' 

Now  the  Jains  officially  recognize  all  the  Gods  of  the  Hindu  creed, 
as  well  as  the  Lingam  and  the  Snake.  They  wear  the  Brahminical 
thread;  they  adhere  to  every  claim  of  Hindu  caste-law.  But, 
because  they  knew  and  loved  the  lama,  because  he  was  an  old  man, 
because  he  sought  the  Way,  because  he  was  their  guest,  and 
because  he  collogued  long  of  nights  with  the  head-priest  —  as  free- 
thinking  a  metaphysician  as  ever  split  a  hair  into  seventy  —  they 
murmured  assent. 

'Remember,'  —  Kim  bent  over  the  child,  —  'this  trouble  may 
come  again. ' 

'Not  if  thou  hast  the  proper  spell,'  said  the  Kamboh. 

'But  in  a  little  while  we  go  away.' 

'True,'  said  the  lama  to  all  the  Jains.  'We  go  now  together 
upon  the  Search  whereof  I  have  often  spoken.  I  waited  till  my 
chela  was  ripe.  Behold  him!  We  go  North.  Never  again  shall 
I  look  upon  this  place  of  my  rest,  O  people  of  good  will.' 

'But  I  am  not  a  beggar. '  The  cultivator  rose  to  his  feet,  clutch- 
ing the  child. 

'Be  still.     Do  not  trouble  the  Holy  One,'  a  priest  said. 

'Go,'  Kim  whispered.     'Meet  us  again  under  the  big  railway 


KIM  241 

bridge,  and  for  the  sake  of  all  the  Gods  of  our  Punjab,  bring  food 
—  curry  pulse,  cakes  fried  in  fat,  and  sweetmeats.  Specially 
sweetmeats.  Be  swift!' 

The  pallor  of  hunger  suited  Kim  very  well  as  he  stood,  tall  and 
slim,  in  his  sad-coloured,  sweeping  robes,  one  hand  on  his  rosary 
and  the  other  in  the  attitude  of  benediction,  faithfully  copied 
from  the  lama.  An  English  observer  might  have  said  that  he 
looked  rather  like  a  young  saint  of  a  stained  glass  window,  whereas 
he  was  but  a  growing  lad  faint  with  emptiness. 

Long  and  formal  were  the  farewells,  thrice  ended  and  thrice 
renewed.  The  Seeker  —  he  who  had  invited  the  lama  to  that 
haven  from  far-away  Tibet,  a  silver-faced,  hairless  ascetic  —  took 
no  part  in  it,  but  meditated,  as  always,  alone  among  the  images. 
The  others  were  very  human;  pressing  small  comforts  upon  the  old 
man,  —  a  betel-box,  a  fine  new  iron  pencase,  a  food-bag,  and  such 
like,  —  warning  him  against  the  dangers  of  the  world  without,  and 
prophesying  a  happy  end  to  the  Search.  Meantime  Kim,  lonelier 
than  ever,  squatted  on  the  steps,  and  swore  to  himself  in  the  lan- 
guage of  St.  Xavier's. 

'But  it  is  my  own  fault,'  he  concluded.  'With  Mahbub,  I  ate 
Mahbub's  bread,  or  Lurgan  Sahib's.  At  St.  Xavier's,  three  meals 
a  day.  Here  I  must  jolly  well  look  out  for  myse  f.  Besides,  I 
am  not  in  good  training.  How  I  could  eat  a  plate  of  beef  now! 
.  .  .  Is  it  finished,  Holy  One?' 

The  lama,  both  hands  raised,  intoned  a  final  blessing  in  ornate 
Chinese.  'I  must  lean  on  thy  shoulder,'  said  he,  as  the  temple 
gates  shut.  'We  grow  stiff,  I  think.' 

The  weight  of  a  six-foot  man  is  not  light  to  steady  through  miles 
of  crowded  streets,  and  Kim,  loaded  down  with  bundles  and  pack- 
ages for  the  way,was  glad  to  reach  the  shadow  of  the  railway  bridge. 


242  KIM 

'Here  we  eat,'  he  said  resolutely,  as  the  Kamboh,  blue-robed 
and  smiling,  hove  in  sight,  a  basket  in  one  hand  and  the  child  on 
the  other. 

'Fall  to,  Holy  Ones!'  he  cried  from  fifty  yards.  (This  was  on 
the  shoal  under  the  first  bridge-span,  out  of  sight  of  hungry  priests.) 
'Rice  and  good  curry,  cakes  all  warm  and  well  scented  with  king 
(asafcetida),  curds  and  sugar.  King  of  my  fields,'  this  to  the  small 
son,  'let  us  show  these  holy  men  that  we  Jats  of  Jullunder  can  pay 
a  service.  .  .  .  I  had  heard  the  Jains  would  eat  nothing 
that  they  had  not  cooked,  but  truly'  —  he  looked  away  politely 
over  the  broad  river  —  'where  there  is  no  eye  there  is  no  caste.' 

'And  we,'  said  Kim,  turning  his  back  and  heaping  a  leaf-platter 
for  the  lama,  'are  beyond  all  castes.' 

They  gorged  themselves  on  the  good  food  in  silence.  Nor  till 
he  had  licked  the  last  of  the  sticky  sweet-stuff  from  his  little  finger 
did  Kim  note  that  the  Kamboh  too  was  girt  for  travel. 

'  If  our  roads  be  together, '  he  said  roughly, '  I  go  with  thee.  One 
does  not  often  find  a  worker  of  miracles,  and  the  child  is  still 
weak.  But  /  am  not  altogether  a  reed.'  He  picked  up  his  lathi 
—  a  five-foot  male  bamboo  ringed  with  bands  of  polished  iron  — 
and  flourished  it  in  the  air.  'The  Jats  are  called  a  quarrelsome 
folk,  but  that  is  not  true.  Except  when  we  are  crossed,  we  are  like 
our  own  buffaloes.' 

'So  be  it,'  said  Kim.     'A  good  stick  is  a  good  reason.' 

The  lama  gazed  placidly  up-stream,  where  in  long,  smudged 

perspective  the  ceaseless  columns  of  smoke  go  up  from  the  burn- 
ing-ghats by  the  river.     Now  and  again,  despite  all  municipal 

regulations,  the  fragment  of  a  half-burned  body  went  by  on  the 
full  current. 

'But  for  thee,'  said  the  Kamboh,  drawing  the  child  into  his 


KIM  243 

hairy  breast,  'I  might  to-day  have  gone  thither  —  with  this  one. 
The  priests  tell  us  that  Benares  is  holy  -  -  which  none  doubt  —  and 
desirable  to  die  in.  But  I  do  not  know  their  Gods,  and  they  ask 
for  money;  and  when  one  has  done  one  worship  a  shaved-head 
vows  it  is  of  none  effect  except  one  do  another.  Wash  here! 
Wash  there!  Pour,  drink,  lave,  and  scatter  flowers  —  but  always 
pay  the  priests.  No,  the  Punjab  for  me,  and  the  soil  of  the 
Jullunder  doab  for  the  best  soil  in  it.' 

'  I  have  said  many  times  —  in  the  temple  I  think  —  that  if  need 
be,  the  River  will  open  at  our  feet.  We  will  therefore  go  North,' 
said  the  lama,  rising.  'I  remember  a  pleasant  place,  set  about 
with  fruit-trees,  where  one  can  walk  in  meditation  —  and  the  air  is 
cooler  there.  It  comes  from  the  hills  and  the  snow  of  the  hills.' 

'What  is  the  name?'  said  Kim. 

4 How  should  I  know?  Didst  thou  not  —  no,  that  was  after  the 
army  rose  out  of  the  earth  and  took  thee  away.  I  abode  there  in 
meditation  in  a  room  against  the  dovecot  —  except  when  she 
talked  eternally.' 

'Oho!  the  woman  from  Kulu.  That  is  by  Saharunpore. '  Kim 
laughed. 

'How  does  the  spirit  move  him?  Does  he  go  afoot,  for  the  sake 
of  past  sins?'  the  Jat  demanded  cautiously.  'It  is  a  far  cry  to 
Delhi.' 

'No,'  said  Kim  promptly.  'I  will  beg  a  tikkut  for  the  te-rain.9 
One  does  not  own  to  the  possession  of  money  in  India. 

'Then  in  the  name  of  the  Gods,  let  us  take  the  fire-carriage.  My 
son  is  best  in  his  mother's  arms.  The  Government  has  brought 
on  us  many  taxes,  but  it  gives  us  one  good  thing  -  -  the  te-rain  that 
joins  friends  and  unites  the  anxious.  A  wonderful  matter  is  the 
te-rain. ' 


244  KIM 

They  all  piled  into  it  a  couple  of  hours  later,  and  slept  through 
the  heat  of  the  day.     The  Kamboh  plied  Kim  with  ten  thousand 
questions  as  to  the  lama's  walk  and  work  in  life,  and  received 
some  curious  answers.     Kim  was  content  to  be  where  he  was,  to 
look  out  upon  the  flat  Northwestern  landscape,  and  to  talk  to  the 
changing  mob  of  fellow-passengers.     Even   to-day,   tickets   and 
ticket-clipping  are  dark  oppression  to  Indian  rustics.     They  do  not 
understand  why,  when  they  have  paid  for  a  magic  piece  of  paper, 
strangers  should  punch  great  pieces  out  of  the  charm.     So,  many 
and  furious  are  the  debates  between  travellers  and  Eurasian  ticket- 
collectors.     Kim   assisted    at   two   or   three  with   grave   advice, 
meant  to  darken  counsel  and  to  show  off  his  wisdom  before  the 
lama  and  the  admiring  Kamboh.     But  at  Somna  Road  the  Fates 
sent  him  something  to  think  upon.     There  tumbled  into  the  com- 
partment, as  the  train  was  moving  off,  a  mean,  lean  little  person 
—  a  Mahratta,  so  far  as  Kim  could  judge  by  the  cock  of  the  tight 
turban.     His  face  was  cut,  his  muslin  upper-garment  was  badly 
torn,  and  one  leg  was  bandaged.     He  told  them  that  a  country 
cart  had  upset  and  nearly  slain  him.     He  was  going  to  Delhi 
where  his  son  lived.     Kim  watched  him  closely.     If,  as  he  as- 
serted, he  had  been  rolled  over  and  over  on  the  earth,  there  should 
have  been  signs  of  gravel-rash  on  the  skin.     But  all  his  injuries 
seemed  clean  cuts,  and  a  mere  fall  from  a  cart  could  not  cast  a 
man  into  such  extremity  of  terror.     As  he  knotted  up  the  torn 
cloth  about  his  neck  with  shaking  fingers,  he  laid  bare  an  amulet 
of  the  kind  called  a  keeper-up  of  the  heart.     Now,  amulets  are 
common    enough,    but  they  are  not  generally  strung  on  square- 
plaited  copper  wire,  and  still  fewer  amulets  are  black  enamel  on 
silver.     There  were  none  except  the  Kamboh  and  the  lama  in  the 
compartment,  which,  luckily,  was  of  an  old  type  with  solid  ends. 


K  I  M  245 

Kim  made  as  to  scratch  in  his  bosom,  and  thereby  lifted  his  own 
amulet.  The  Mahratta's  face  changed  altogether  at  the  sight,  and 
he  disposed  the  amulet  fairly  on  his  breast. 

'Yes,'  he  went  on  to  the  Kamboh,  'I  was  in  haste,  and  the 
cart,  driven  by  a  bastard,  bound  its  wheel  in  a  water-cut,  and 
besides  the  harm  done  to  me  there  was  lost  a  full  dish  of  tarkeean. 
I  was  not  a  Son  of  the  Charm  (lucky  man)  that  day. ' 

'That  was  a  great  loss,'  said  the  Kamboh,  withdrawing  interest. 
His  experience  of  Benares  had  made  him  suspicious. 

'Who  cooked  it?'  said  Kim. 

'A  woman.'      The  Mahratta  raised  his  eyes. 

'But  all  women  can  cook  tarkeean^  said  the  Kamboh.  'It 
is  a  good  curry,  as  I  know.' 

'Oh  yes,  it  is  a  good  curry,'  said  the  Mahratta. 

'And  cheap,'  said  Kim.     'But  what  about  caste?' 

'Oh,  there  is  no  caste  where  men  go  to  —  look  for  tarkeean^ 
the  Mahratta  replied,  in  the  prescribed  cadence.  'Of  whose  service 
art  thou  ? ' 

'Of  the  service  of  this  Holy  One.'  Kim  pointed  to  the  happy, 
drowsy  lama,  who  woke  with  a  jerk  at  the  well-loved  word. 

'Ah,  he  was  sent  from  heaven  to  aid  me.  He  is  called  the 
Friend  of  all  the  World.  He  is  also  called  the  Friend  of  the  Stars. 
He  walks  as  a  physician  —  the  time  being  ripe.  Great  is  his 
wisdom.' 

'And  a  Son  of  the  Charm,'  said  Kim  under  his  breath,  as  the 
Kamboh  made  haste  to  prepare  a  pipe  lest  the  Mahratta  should 
beg. 

'And  who  is  that?'  the  Mahratta  asked,  glancing  sideways  ner- 
vously. 

'One  whose  child  I  —  we  have  cured,  who  lies  under  great  debt 


246  KIM 

to  us.  —    Sit  by  the  window,  man  from  Jullimder.     Here  is  a  sick 


one.3 


( Humph!  I  have  no  desire  to  mix  with  chance-met  wastrels. 
My  ears  are  not  long.  I  am  not  a  woman  wishing  to  overhear 
secrets.'  The  Jat  slid  himself  heavily  into  a  far  corner. 

'Art  thou  anything  of  a  healer?  I  am  ten  leagues  deep  in 
calamity,'  cried  the  Mahratta,  picking  up  the  cue. 

'The  man  is  cut  and  bruised  all  over.  I  go  about  to  cure  him.' 
Kim  retorted.  'None  interfered  between  thy  babe  and  me.' 

'I  am  rebuked,'  said  the  Kamboh  meekly.  'I  am  thy  debtor 
for  the  life  of  my  son.  Thou  art  a  miracle-worker.  I  know  it.' 

'Show  me  the  cuts.'  Kim  bent  over  the  Mahratta's  neck,  his 
heart  nearly  choking  him;  for  this  was  the  Great  Game  with  a  ven- 
geance. 'Now  tell  thy  tale  swiftly,  brother,  while  I  say  a  charm.' 

'I  come  from  the  South,  where  my  work  lay.  One  of  us  they 
slew  by  the  roadside.  Hast  thou  heard?'  Kim  shook  his  head. 
He,  of  course,  knew  nothing  of  E.23's  predecessor,  slain  down 
South  in  the  habit  of  an  Arab  trader.  'Having  found  a  certain 
letter  which  I  was  sent  to  seek,  I  came  away.  I  escaped  from 
the  city  and  ran  to  Mhow.  So  sure  was  I  that  none  knew,  I  did 
not  change  my  face.  At  Mhow  a  woman  brought  charges  against 
me  of  theft  of  jewellery  in  that  city  which  I  had  left.  Then  I  saw 
the  cry  was  out  against  me.  I  ran  from  Mhow  by  night,  bribing 
the  police,  who  had  been  bribed  to  hand  me  over  without  question 
to  my  enemies  in  the  South.  Then  I  lay  in  old  Chitor  city  a  week, 
a  penitent  in  a  temple,  but  I  could  not  get  rid  of  the  letter  which 
was  my  charge.  I  buried  it  under  the  Queen's  Stone,  at  Chitor, 
in  the  place  known  to  us  all.' 

Kim  did  not  know,  but  not  for  worlds  would  he  have  broken 
the  thread. 


KIM  247 

'At  Chitor,  look  you,  I  was  all  in  Kings'  country;  for  Kotah  to 
the  east  is  beyond  the  Sirkar's  law,  and  east  again  lie  Jeypur  and 
Gwakior.  Neither  love  spies,  and  there  is  no  justice.  I  was 
hunted  like  a  wet  jackal;  but  I  broke  through  at  Bandakui,  where 
I  heard  there  was  a  charge  against  me  of  murder  in  the  city  I  had 
left  —  of  the  murder  of  a  boy.  They  have  both  the  corpse  and 
the  witnesses  waiting. ' 

'But  cannot  the  Sirkar  protect?' 

'  We  of  the  Game  are  beyond  protection.  If  we  die,  we  die.  Our 
names  are  blotted  from  the  book.  That  is  all.  At  Bandakui,  where 

lives  one  of  us,  I  thought  to  slip  the  scent  by  changing  my  face, 
and  so  made  me  a  Mahratta.  Then  I  came  to  Agra,  and  would 
have  turned  back  to  Chitor  to  recover  the  letter.  So  sure  I  was  I 
had  slipped  them.  Therefore  I  did  not  send  a  tar  (telegram)  to 
any  one  saying  where  the  letter  lay.  I  wished  the  credit  of  it  all. ' 

Kim  nodded.     He  understood  that  feeling  well. 

'But  at  Agra,  walking  in  the  streets,  a  man  cried  a  debt  against 
me,  and  approaching  with  many  witnesses,  would  have  me  to  the 
courts  then  and  there.  Oh,  they  are  clever  in  the  South!  He 
recognised  me  as  his  agent  for  cotton.  May  he  burn  in  hell  for  it! ' 

'And  wast  thou?' 

'O  fool!  I  was  the  man  they  sought  for  the  matter  of  the 
letter.  I  ran  into  the  Fleshers'  Ward  and  came  out  by  the  House 
of  the  Jew,  who  feared  a  riot  and  pushed  me  out.  I  came  afoot 
to  Somna  Road  —  I  had  only  money  for  my  tikkut  to  Delhi,  and 
there,  while  I  lay  in  a  ditch  with  the  fever,  one  sprang  out  of  the 
bushes  and  beat  me  and  cut  me  and  searched  me  from  head  to 
foot.  Within  earshot  of  the  te-rain  it  was!' 

'Why  did  he  not  slay  thee  out  of  hand?' 

'They  are  not  so  foolish.     If  I  am  taken  in  Delhi  at  the  instance 


248  KIM 

of  lawyers,  upon  a  proven  charge  of  murder,  my  body  is  handed 
over  to  the  State  that  desires  it.  I  go  back  guarded,  and  then  — 
I  die  slowly  for  an  example  to  the  rest  of  us.  The  South  is  not 
my  country.  I  run  in  circles  —  like  a  goat  with  one  eye.  I 
have  not  eaten  for  two  days.  I  am  marked'  —  he  touched  the 
filthy  bandage  on  his  leg  —  'so  that  they  will  know  me  at  Delhi.' 

'Thou  art  safe  in  the  te-rain,  at  least.' 

'Live  a  year  at  the  Great  Game  and  tell  me  that  again.  The 
wires  will  be  out  against  me  at  Delhi,  describing  every  tear  and 
rag  upon  me.  Twenty  -  -  a  hundred,  if  need  be  —  will  have  seen 
me  slay  that  boy.  And  thou  art  useless!' 

Kim  knew  enough  of  native  methods  of  attack  not  to  doubt 
that  the  case  would  be  deadly  complete  -  -  even  to  the  corpse. 
The  Mahratta  twitched  his  fingers  with  pain  from  time  to  time. 
The  Kamboh  in  his  corner  glared  sullenly;  the  lama  was  busy  over 
his  beads;  and  Kim,  fumbling  doctor  fashion  at  the  man's  neck, 
thought  out  his  plan  between  invocations. 

'Hast  thou  a  charm  to  change  my  shape?  Else  I  am  dead. 
Five  —  ten  minutes  alone,  if  I  had  not  been  so  pressed,  and  I 
might 

'Is  he  cured  yet,  miracle-worker?'  said  the  Kamboh  jealously. 
'Thou  hast  chanted  long  enough.' 

'Nay.  There  is  no  cure  for  his  hurts,  as  I  see,  except  he  sit 
for  three  days  in  the  habit  of  a  bairagi. '  This  is  a  common  pen- 
ance, often  imposed  on  a  fat  trader  by  his  spiritual  teacher. 

'One  priest  always  goes  about  to  make  another  priest,'  was  the 
retort.  Like  most  grossly  superstitious  folk,  the  Kamboh  could 
not  keep  his  tongue  from  deriding  his  church. 

'Will  thy  son  be  a  priest,  then?  It  is  time  he  took  more  of  my 
white  medicine. ' 


KIM  249 

1  We  Jats  are  all  buffaloes, '  said  the  Kamboh,  softening  anew. 

Kim  rubbed  a  finger-tip  of  bitterness  on  the  child's  trusting 
little  lips.  'I  have  asked  for  nothing,'  he  said  sternly  to  the 
father,  'except  food.  Dost  thou  grudge  me  that?  I  go  to  heal 
another  man.  Have  I  thy  leave  —  Prince?' 

Up  flew  the  man's  huge  paws  in  supplication.  'Nay  —  nay. 
Do  not  speak  to  me  thus.' 

'It  pleases  me  to  cure  this  sick  one.  Thou  shalt  acquire  merit 
by  aiding.  What  colour  ash  is  there  in  thy  pipe  bowl?  White. 
That  is  auspicious.  Was  there  raw  turmeric  among  thy  food- 
stuffs?' 

'I  — I ' 

'Open  thy  bundle.' 

It  was  the  usual  collection  of  small  oddments:  bits  of  cloth, 
quack  medicines,  cheap  fairings,  a  clothful  of  atta,  —  the  cheap, 
grayish,  rough-ground  native  flour,  —  twists  of  down-country 
tobacco,  tawdry  pipe-stems,  and  heaven  knows  what  else,  wrapped 
in  a  quilt.  Kim  turned  it  over  with  the  air  of  a  wise  jackdaw, 
muttering  a  Mohammedan  invocation. 

'This  is  wisdom  I  learned  from  the  Sahibs,'  he  whispered  to  the 
lama;  and  here,  when  one  thinks  of  his  training  at  Lurgan's,  he 
spoke  no  more  than  the  truth.  'There  is  a  great  evil  in  this  man's 
fortune,  as  shown  by  the  stars,  which  —  which  troubles  him. 
Shall  I  take  it  away?' 

'Friend  of  the  Stars,  thou  hast  done  well  in  all  things.  Let  it 
be  at  thy  pleasure.  Is  it  another  healing?' 

'Quick!  Be  quick!'  gasped  the  Mahratta.  'The  train  may 
stop.' 

'A  healing  against  the  shadow  of  death,'  said  Kim,  mixing  the 
Kamboh's  flour  with  the  mingled  charcoal  and  tobacco  ash  in 


250  KIM 

the  red-earth  bowl  of  the  pipe.  £.23,  without  a  word,  slipped  off 
his  turban  and  shook  down  his  long  black  hair. 

'That  is  my  food  —  priest,'  the  man  growled. 

'A  buffalo  in  the  temple!  Hast  thou  dared  to  look  even  thus 
far?'  said  Kim.  'I  must  do  mysteries  before  fools;  but  have  a 
care  for  thy  eyes.  Is  there  a  film  before  them  already?  I  save 
the  babe,  and  all  thou  canst  do  —  oh,  shameless!'  The  man 
flinched  at  the  direct  gaze,  for  Kim  was  wholly  in  earnest.  '  Shall 

I  curse  thee,  or  shall  I '     He  picked  up  the  outer  cloth  of 

the  bundle  and  threw  it  over  the  man's  head.  'Dare  so  much 
as  to  think  a  wish  to  see,  and  —  and  —  even  I  cannot  save  thee. 
Sit!  Be  dumb!' 

'I  am  blind  —  dumb.  Forbear  to  curse.  Co  —  come,  child; 
we  will  play  a  game  of  hiding.  Do  not,  for  my  sake,  look  from 
under  the  cloth.' 

'I  see  hope,'  said  £.23.     'What  is  thy  scheme?' 

'This  comes  next,'  said  Kim,  plucking  the  thin  body-shirt. 
£.23  hesitated,  with  all  a  Northwest  man's  dislike  of  baring  his 
body. 

'What  is  caste  to  a  cut  throat?'  said  Kim,  rending  it  to  the 
waist.  'We  must  make  thee  a  yellow  Saddhu  all  over.  Strip  — 
strip  swiftly,  and  shake  thy  hair  over  thy  eyes  while  I  scatter  the 
ash.  Now,  a  caste-mark  on  thy  forehead.'  He  dived  into  his 
bosom  for  the  little  greasy  paint-box  and  a  cake  of  crimson  lake. 

'Art  thou  only  a  beginner?'  said  £.23,  labouring  literally  for 
the  dear  life,  as  he  slid  out  of  his  body-wrappings  and  stood  clear 
in  the  loin-cloth  while  Kim  splashed  in  a  noble  caste-mark  on  the 
smeared  brow. 

'But  two  days  entered  to  the  Game,  brother,'  Kim  replied. 
'Smear  more  ash  on  the  bosom.' 


KIM  251 

'Hast  thou  met  —  a  physician  of  sick  pearls?'  He  switched 
out  the  long,  tight-rolled  turban  cloth  and,  with  swiftest  hands, 
rolled  it  over  and  under  about  his  loins  into  the  intricate  devices 
of  a  Saddhu's  cincture. 

' Hah!  Dost  thou  know  his  touch,  then?  He  was  my  teacher 
for  a  while.  We  must  bare  thy  legs.  Ash  cures  wounds.  Smear 
it  again.' 

'I  was  his  pride  once,  but  thou  art  almost  better.  The  Gods 
are  good  to  us.  Give  me  that. ' 

It  was  a  tin  box  of  opium  pills  among  the  rubbish  of  the  Jat's 
bundle.  £.23  gulped  down  a  half  handful.  'They  are  good 
against  hunger,  fear,  and  chill.  And  they  make  the  eyes  red,  too, ' 
he  explained.  'Now  I  shall  have  heart  to  play  the  Game.  We 
lack  only  the  Saddhu's  tongs.  What  of  the  old  clothes?' 

Kim  rolled  them  small,  and  stuffed  them  into  the  slack  folds 
of  his  bosom.  With  the  yellow  ochre  cake  he  smeared  the  legs 
and  the  breast,  great  streaks  against  the  background  of  flour  and 
ash  and  turmeric. 

'The  blood  on  them  is  enough  to  hang  thee,  brother.' 

'Maybe;  but  no  need  to  throw  them  out  of  the  window.  .  .  . 
It  is  finished. '  His  voice  thrilled  with  a  boy's  pure  delight  in  the 
Game.  'Turn  and  look,  O  Jat!' 

'The  Gods  protect  us,'  said  the  hooded  Kamboh,  emerging  like 
a  buffalo  from  a  swamp.  'But  —  whither  went  the  Mahratta? 
What  hast  thou  done?' 

Kim  had  been  trained  by  Lurgan  Sahib;  and  E.23,  by  virtue 
of  his  business,  was  no  bad  actor.  In  place  of  the  tremulous, 
shrinking  trader  there  lolled  against  the  corner  an  all  but  naked, 
ash-smeared,  ochre-barred,  dusty-haired  Saddhu,  his  swollen  eyes 
—  opium  takes  quick  effect  on  an  empty  stomach  —  luminous 


252  KIM 

with  insolence  and  bestial  lust,  his  legs  crossed  under  him,  Kim's 
brown  rosary  round  his  neck,  and  a  scant  yard  of  worn,  flowered 
chintz  on  his  shoulders.  The  child  buried  his  face  in  his  amazed 
father's  arms. 

'Look  up,  Princeling!  We  travel  with  warlocks,  but  they  will 
not  hurt  thee.  Oh,  do  not  cry.  .  .  .  What  is  the  sense  of  cur- 
ing a  child  one  day  and  killing  him  with  fright  the  next?' 

'The  child  will  be  fortunate  all  his  days.  He  has  seen  a  great 
healing.  When  I  was  a  child  I  made  clay  men  and  horses.' 

'I  have  made  them  too.  Sir  Banas,  he  comes  in  the  night  and 
makes  them  all  alive  at  the  back  of  our  kitchen  midden, '  said  the 
child. 

'And  so  thou  art  not  frightened  at  anything.     Eh,  Prince?' 

'I  was  frightened  because  my  father  was  frightened.  I  felt  his 
arms  shake.' 

'Oh,  chicken-man,'  said  Kim,  and  even  the  abashed  Jat  laughed. 
'I  have  done  a  healing  on  this  poor  trader.  He  must  forsake  his 
gains  and  his  account-books,  and  sit  by  the  wayside  three  nights 
to  overcome  the  malignity  of  his  enemies.  The  stars  are  against 
him.' 

'The  fewer  money-lenders,  the  better,  say  I;  but,  Saddhu  or 
no  Saddhu,  he  must  pay  for  my  stuff  on  his  shoulders.' 

'So!  But  that  is  thy  child  on  thy  shoulder  —  given  over  to 
the  burning-ghat  not  two  days  ago.  There  remains  one  thing 
more.  I  did  this  charm  in  thy  presence  because  need  was  great. 
I  changed  his  shape  and  his  soul.  None  the  less,  if,  by  any  chance, 
O  man  from  Jullunder,  thou  rememberest  what  thou  hast  seen, 
either  among  the  elders  sitting  under  the  village  tree,  or  in  thy 
own  house,  or  in  company  of  thy  priest  when  he  blesses  thy  cattle, 
a  murrain  will  come  among  the  buffaloes,  and  a  fire  in  thy  thatch, 


KIM  253 

and  rats  in  the  corn-bin,  and  the  curse  of  our  Gods  upon  thy  fields 
that  they  may  be  barren  before  thy  feet  and  after  thy  plough- 
share/ This  was  part  of  an  old  curse  picked  up  from  a.  faquir  by 
the  Taksali  Gate  in  the  days  of  Kim's  innocence.  It  lost  nothing 
by  repetition. 

'Cease,  Holy  One!  In  mercy,  cease!'  cried  the  Jat.  'Do  not 
curse  the  household.  I  saw  nothing!  I  heard  nothing!  I  am 
thy  cow!'  and  he  made  to  grab  at  Kim's  bare  foot  beating  rhyth- 
mically on  the  carriage  floor. 

'But  since  thou  hast  been  permitted  to  aid  me  in  the  matter  of 
a  pinch  of  flour  and  a  little  opium  and  such  trifles  as  I  have  hon- 
oured by  using  in  my  art,  so  will  the  Gods  return  a  blessing,'  and 
he  gave  it  at  length,  to  the  man's  immense  relief.  It  was  one  that 
he  had  learned  from  Lurgan  Sahib. 

The  lama  stared  through  his  spectacles  as  he  had  not  stared 
at  the  business  of  disguisement. 

'Friend  of  the  Stars,'  he  said  at  last,  'thou  hast  acquired  great 
wisdom.  Beware  that  it  do  not  give  birth  to  pride.  No  man 
having  the  Law  before  his  eyes  speaks  hastily  of  any  matter 
which  he  has  seen  or  encountered. ' 

'No  —  no  —  no  indeed,'  cried  the  farmer,  fearful  lest  the  master 
should  be  minded  to  improve  on  the  pupil.  £.23,  with  relaxed 
mouth,  gave  himself  up  to  the  opium  that  is  meat,  tobacco,  and 
medicine  to  the  spent  Asiatic. 

So,  in  a  silence  of  awe  and  great  miscomprehension,  they  slid 
into  Delhi  about  lamp-lighting  time. 


CHAPTER  XII 

Who  hath  desired  the  Sea  —  the  sight  of  salt-water  unbounded? 
The  heave  and  the  halt  and  the  hurl  and  the  crash  of  the  comber  wind-hounded? 
The  sleek-barrelled  swell  before  storm  —  gray,  foamless,  enormous,  and  growing? 
Stark  calm  on  the  lap  of  the  Line  —  or  the  crazy-eyed  hurricane  blowing? 
His  Sea  in  no  showing  the  same  —  his  Sea  and  the  same  'neath  all  showing  — 

His  Sea  that  his  being  fulfils? 
So  and  no  otherwise  —  so  and  no  otherwise  Hill-men  desire  their  Hills! 


•x 
'I  HAVE  found  my  heart  again, 'K  said  £.23,  under  cover  of  the 

platform's  tumult.  *  Hunger  and  fear  make  men  dazed,  or  I 
might  have  thought  of  this  escape  before.  I  was  right.  They 
come  to  look  for  me.  Thou  hast  saved  my  life.' 

A  group  of  yellow-trousered  Punjab  policemen,  headed  by  a 
hot  and  perspiring  young  Englishman,  parted  the  crowd  about  the 
carriages.  Behind  them,  inconspicuous  as  a  cat,  ambled  a  small 
fat  person  who  looked  like  a  lawyer's  tout. 

'See  the  young  Sahib  reading  from  a  paper.  My  description 
is  in  his  hand,'  said  £.23.  'They  go  carriage  by  carriage,  like 
fisher-folk  netting  a  pool.' 

When  the  procession  reached  their  compartment,  £.23  was 
counting  his  beads  with  a  .steady  jerk  of  the  wrist;  while  Kim 
jeered  at  him  for  being  so  drugged  as  to  have  lost  the  ringed  fire- 
tongs  which  are  the  Saddhu's  distinguishing  mark.  The  lama, 
deep  in  meditation,  stared  straight  before  him;  and  the  farmer, 
looking  furtively,  gathered  up  his  belongings. 

'Nothing  here  but  a  parcel  of  holy-bolies, '  said  the  Englishman 

254 


KIM  255 

aloud,  and  passed  on  amid  a  ripple  of  uneasiness;  for  native  police 
mean  extortion  to  the  native  all  India  over. 

'The  trouble  now,'  whispered  E.  23,  'lies  in  sending  a  wire  as 
to  the  place  where  I  hid  that  which  I  was  sent  to  find.  I  cannot 
go  to  the  tar-office  in  this  guise.' 

'Is  it  not  enough  I  have  saved  thy  neck?' 

'Not  if  the  work  be  left  unfinished.  Did  never  the  healer  of 
sick  pearls  tell  thee?  Comes  another  Sahib !  Ah!' 

This  was  a  tallish,  s-allowish  District  Superintendent  of  Police, 
—  belt,  helmet,  polished  spurs  and  all,  —  strutting  and  twirling 
his  dark  moustache. 

'What  fools  are  these  police  Sahibs!'  said  Kim  genially. 

E.23  glanced  up  under  his  eyelids.  'It  is  well  said,'  he  mut- 
tered in  a  changed  voice.  '  I  go  to  drink  water.  Keep  my  place. ' 

He  blundered  out  almost  into  the  Englishman's  arms,  and  was 
bad-worded  in  clumsy  Urdu. 

'Turn  mut?  You  drunk?  You  mustn't  bang  about  as  though 
Delhi  station  belonged  to  you,  my  friend. ' 

£.23,  not  moving  a  muscle  of  his  countenance,  answered  with  a 
stream  of  the  filthiest  abuse,  at  which  Kim  naturally  rejoiced. 
It  reminded  him  of  the  drummer-boys  and  the  barrack-sweepers 
at  Umballa  in  the  terrible  time  of  his  first  schooling. 

'My  good  fool,'  the  Englishman  drawled.  'Nicklao  jaol  Go 
back  to  your  carriage. ' 

Step  by  step,  withdrawing  deferentially,  and  dropping  his  voice, 
the  yellow  Saddhu  clomb  back  to  the  carnage,  cursing  the  D.  S.  P. 
to  remotest  posterity  by  —  here  Kim  almost  jumped  —  by  the 
curse  of  the  Queen's  Stone,  by  the  writing  under  the  Queen's 
Stone,  and  by  an  assortment  of  Gods  with  wholly  new  names. 
.  'I  don't  know  what  you're  saying,'  —  the  Englishman  flushed 


256  KIM 

angrily,  —  'but  it's  some  piece  of  blasted  impertinence.     Come 
out  of  that!' 

£.23,  affecting  to  misunderstand,  gravely  produced  his  ticket, 
which  the  Englishman  wrenched  angrily  from  his  hand. 

'Oh  zoolum!  What  oppression!'  growled  the  Jat  from  his  cor- 
ner. 'All  for  the  sake  of  a  jest  too.'  He  had  been  grinning  at  the 
freedom  of  the  Saddhu's  tongue.  'Thy  charms  do  not  work  well 
to-day,  Holy  One!' 

The  Saddhu  followed  the  policeman,  fawning  and  supplicating. 
The  ruck  of  passengers,  busy  with  their  babies  and  their  bundles, 
had  not  noticed  the  affair.  Kim  slipped  out  behind  him;  for  it 
flashed  through  his  head  that  he  had  heard  this  angry,  stupid 
Sahib  discoursing  loud  personalities  to  an  old  lady  near  Umballa 
three  years  ago. 

'It  is  well,'  the  Saddhu  whispered,  jammed  in  the  calling,  shout- 
ing, bewildered  press  —  a  Persian  greyhound  between  his  feet 
and  a  cageful  of  yelling  hawks  under  charge  of  a  Rajput  falconer 
in  the  small  of  his  back.  'He  has  gone  now  to  send  word  of  the 
letter  which  I  hid.  They  told  me  he  was  in  Peshawur.  I  might 
have  known  he  is  like  the  crocodile  —  always  at  the  other  ford. 
He  has  saved  me  from  present  calamity,  but  I  owe  my  life  to 
thee.' 

'Is  he  also  one  of  Us?'  Kim  ducked  under  a  Meiwar  camel- 
driver's  greasy  armpit  and  cannoned  off  a  covey  of  jabbering  Sikh 
matrons. 

'Not  less  than  the  greatest.  We  are  both  fortunate!  I  will 
make  report  to  him  of  what  thou  hast  done.  I  am  safe  under  his 
protection. ' 

He  bored  through  the  edge  of  the  crowd,  besieging  the  car- 
riages, and  squatted  by  the  bench  near  the  telegraph-office. 


KIM  257 

*  Return,  or  they  take  thy  place!  Have  no  fear  for  the  work, 
brother  —  or  my  life.  Thou  hast  given  me  breathing-space,  and 
Strickland  Sahib  has  pulled  me  to  land.  We  may  work  together 
on  the  road  yet.  Farewell!' 

Kim  hurried  to  his  carriage:  elated,  bewildered,  and  a  little 
nettled  in  that  he  had  no  key  to  the  secrets  about  him. 

'I  am  only  a  beginner  at  the  Game,  that  is  sure.  /  could  not 
have  leaped  into  safety  as  did  the  Saddhu.  He  knew  it  was 
darkest  under  the  lamp.  I  could  not  have  thought  to  tell  news 
under  pretence  of  cursing  .  .  .  and  how  clever  was  the 
Sahib !  No  matter,  I  saved  the  life  of  one.  .  .  .  Where  is  the 
Kamboh  gone,  Holy  One?'  he  whispered,  as  he  took  his  seat  in 
the  now  crowded  compartment. 

1 A  fear  took  him, '  the  lama  replied,  with  a  touch  of  tender  malice. 
'He  saw  thee  change  the  Mahratta  to  a  Saddhu  in  the  twinkling  of 
an  eye,  as  a  protection  against  evil.  That  shook  him.  Then  he 
saw  the  Saddhu  fall  sheer  into  the  hands  of  the  polis  —  all  the 
effect  of  thy  art.  Then  he  gathered  up  his  son  and  fled;  for  he 
said  that  thou  didst  change  a  quiet  trader  into  an  impudent 
bandier  of  words  with  the  Sahib-log,  and  he  feared  the  like  fate. 
Where  is  the  Saddhu?' 

'With  the  polis^  said  Kim.  .  .  .  'Yet  I  saved  the  Kam- 
boh's  child.' 

The  lama  snuffed  blandly. 

'Ah,  chela,  see  how  thou  art  overtaken!  Thou  didst  cure  the 
Kamboh's  child  solely  to  acquire  merit.  But  thou  didst  put  a 
spell  on  the  Mahratta  with  prideful  workings  —  I  watched  thee 
—  and  with  side-long  glances  to  bewilder  an  old,  old  man  and  a 
foolish  farmer.  Whence  calamity  and  suspicion.' 

Kim  controlled  himself  with  an  effort  beyond  his  years.     Not 


258  KIM 

more  than  any  other  youngster  did  he  like  to  eat  dirt  or  to  be 
misjudged,  but  he  saw  himself  in  a  cleft  stick.  The  train  rolled 
out  of  Delhi  into  the  night. 

'It  is  true,'  he  murmured.  'Where  I  have  offended  thee  I  have 
done  wrong. ' 

'It  is  more,  chela.  Thou  hast  loosed  an  act  upon  the  world, 
and  as  a  stone  thrown  into  a  pool  so  spread  the  consequences  thou 
canst  not  tell  how  far. ' 

This  ignorance  was  well  both  for  Kim's  vanity  and  for  the  lama's 
peace  of  mind,  when  we  think  that  there  was  then  being  handed 
in  at  Simla  a  code  wire  reporting  the  arrival  of  £.23  at  Delhi,  and, 
more  important,  the  whereabout  of  a  letter  he  had  been  com- 
missioned to  —  abstract.  Incidentally,  an  over-zealous  police- 
man had  arrested,  on  charge  of  murder  done  in  a  far  southern 
State,  a  horribly  indignant  Ajmir  cotton-broker,  who  was  explain- 
ing himself  to  a  Mr.  Strickland  on  Delhi  platform  while  £.23  was 
paddling  through  byways  into  the  locked  heart  of  Delhi  city. 
In  two  hours  several  telegrams  had  reached  the  angry  minister 
of  a  southern  State  reporting  that  all  trace  of  a  somewhat  bruised 
Mahratta  had  been  lost;  and  by  the  time  the  leisurely  train  halted 
at  Saharunpore  the  last  ripple  of  the  stone  Kim  had  helped  to 
heave  was  lapping  against  the  steps  of  a  mosque  in  far-away  Roum 
—  where  it  disturbed  a  pious  man  at  prayers. 

The  lama  made  his  in  ample  form  near  the  dewy  bougainvillea 
trellis  near  the  platform,  cheered  by  the  clear  sunshine  and  the 
presence  of  his  disciple.  'We  will  put  these  things  behind  us,' 
he  said,  indicating  the  brazen  engine  and  the  gleaming  track. 
'The  jolting  of  the  te-rain  —  though  a  wonderful  thing  —  has 
turned  my  bones  to  water.  We  will  use  clean  air  henceforward.' 

'Let  us  go  to  the  Rajputni's  house. '     Kim  stepped  forth  cheerily 


KIM  259 

imder  the  bundles.  Early  morning  Saharunpore-way  is  clean  and 
well  scented.  He  thought  of  the  morning  classes  at  St.  Xavier's, 
and  it  topped  his  already  thrice-heaped  contentment. 

'Where  is  this  new  haste  born  from?  Wise  men  do  not  run 
about  like  chickens  in  the  sun.  We  have  come  hundreds  upon 
hundreds  of  kos  already,  and,  till  now,  I  have  scarcely  been  alone 
with  thee  an  instant.  How  canst  thou  receive  instruction  all 
jostled  of  crowds  ?  How  can  I,  whelmed  by  a  flux  of  talk,  medi- 
tate upon  the  Way  ? ' 

'Her  tongue  grows  no  shorter  with  the  years,  then?'  The 
disciple  smiled. 

'Nor  her  desire  for  charms.  I  remember  once  when  I  spoke 
of  the  Wheel  of  Life'  —  the  lama  fumbled  in  his  bosom  for  his 
latest  copy  —  'she  was  only  curious  about  the  devils  that  besiege 
children.  She  shall  acquire  merit  by  entertaining  us  —  in  a 
little  while  —  at  an  after  occasion  —  softly,  softly.  Now  we  will 
wander  loose-foot,  waiting  upon  the  Chain  of  Things.  The  Search 
is  great.' 

So  they  travelled  very  easily  across  and  among  the  broad  bloom- 
full  fruit-gardens  —  by  way  of  Aminabad,  Sahaigunge,  Akrola  of 
the  Ford,  and  little  Phulesa  —  the  line  of  the  Sewaliks  always  to 
the  north,  and  behind  them  again  the  snows.  After  long,  sweet 
sleep  under  the  dry  stars  came  the  lordly,  leisurely  passage  through 
a  waking  village  —  begging-bowl  held  forth  in  silence,  but  eyes 
roving  in  defiance  of  the  Law  from  sky's  edge  to  sky's  edge.  Then 
would  Kim  return  soft-footed  through  the  soft  dust  to  his  master 
under  the  shadow  of  a  mango  tree  or  the  thinner  shade  of  a  white 
Doon  siris,  to  eat  and  drink  at  ease.  At  mid-day,  after  talk  and 
a  little  wayfaring,  they  slept;  meeting  the  world  refreshed  when 
the  air  was  cooler.  Night  found  them  adventuring  into  new  terri- 


260  KIM 

tory  —  some  chosen  village  spied  three  hours  before  across  the  fat 
land,  and  much  discussed  upon  the  road. 

There  they  told  their  tale,  —  a  new  one  each  evening  so  far  as 
Kim  was  concerned,  —  and  there  were  they  made  welcome,  either 
by  priest  or  headman,  after  the  custom  of  the  kindly  East. 

When  the  shadows  shortened  and  the  lama  leaned  more  heavily 
upon  Kim,  there  was  always  the  Wheel  of  Life  to  draw  forth,  to 
hold  flat  under  wiped  stones,  and  with  a  long  straw  to  expound 
cycle  by  cycle.  Here  sat  the  Gods  on  high  —  and  they  were 
dreams  of  dreams.  Here  was  our  Heavens  and  the  world  of  the 
demi-Gods  —  horsemen  fighting  among  the  hills.  Here  were  the 
agonies  done  upon  the  beasts,  souls  ascending  or  descending  the 
ladder  and  therefore  not  to  be  interfered  with.  Here  were  the 
Hells,  hot  and  cold,  and  the  abodes  of  tormented  ghosts.  Let  the 
chela  study  the  troubles  that  come  from  overeating  —  bloated 
stomach  and  burning  bowels.  Obediently  then,  with  bowed 
head  and  brown  finger  alert  to  follow  the  pointer,  did  the  chela 
study;  but  when  they  came  to  the  Human  World,  busy  and  profit- 
less, that  is  just  above  the  Hells,  his  mind  was  distracted;  for  by  the 
roadside  trundled  the  very  Wheel  itself,  eating,  drinking,  trading, 
marrying,  and  quarrelling  —  all  warmly  alive.  Often  the  lama 
made  the  living  pictures  the  matter  of  his  text,  bidding  Kim  — 
too  ready  —  note  how  the  flesh  takes  a  thousand  thousand  shapes, 
desirable  or  detestable  as  men  reckon,  but  in  truth  of  no  account 
either  way;  and  how  the  stupid  spirit,  bond-slave  to  the  Hog,  the 
Dove,  and  the  Serpent  —  lusting  after  betel-nut,  a  new  yoke  of 
oxen,  women,  or  the  favour  of  kings  —  is  bound  to  follow  the  body 
through  all  the  Heavens  and  all  the  Hells,  and  strictly  round  again. 
Sometimes  a  woman  or  a  poor  man,  watching  the  ritual  —  it  was 
nothing  less  —  when  the  great  yellow  chart  was  unfolded,  would 


KIM  261 

throw  a  few  flowers  or  a  handful  of  cowries  upon  its  edge.  It 
sufficed  these  humble  ones  they  had  met  a  Holy  One  who  might 
be  moved  to  remember  them  in  his  prayers. 

'Cure  them  if  they  are  sick,'  said  the  lama,  when  Kim's  sport- 
ing instincts  woke.  'Cure  them  if  they  have  fever,  but  by  no 
means  work  charms.  Remember  what  befell  the  Mahratta.' 

'Then  all  doing  is  evil?'  Kim  replied,  lying  out  under  a  big 
tree  at  the  fork  of  the  Doon  road,  watching  the  little  ants  run 
over  his  hand. 

'To  abstain  from  action  is  well  —  except  to  acquire  merit.' 

'At  the  Gates  of  Learning  we  were  taught  that  to  abstain  from 
action  was  unbefitting  a  Sahib.  And  I  am  a  Sahib.' 

'Friend  of  all  the  World'  —  the  lama  looked  directly  at  Kim, 
—  'I  am  an  old  man  —  pleased  with  shows  as  are  children.  To 
those  who  follow  the  Way  there  is  neither  black  nor  white,  Hind 
nor  Bhotiyal.  We  be  all  souls  seeking  escape.  No  matter  what 
thy  wisdom  learned  among  Sahibs,  when  we  come  to  my  River 
thou  wilt  be  freed  from  all  illusion  —  at  my  side.  Hai!  my_bones 
ache  for  that  River,  as  they  ached  in  the  te-rain\  but  my  spirit 
sits  above  my  bones,  waiting.  The  Search  is  sure!' 

'I  am  answered.     Is  it  permitted  to  ask  a  question?' 

The  lama  inclined  his  stately  head. 

'  I  ate  thy  bread  for  three  years  —  as  thou  knowest.  Holy  One, 
whence  come ' 

'There  is  much  wealth,  as  men  count  it,  in  Bhotiyal,'  the  lama 
returned  with  composure.  'In  my  own  place  I  have  honour.  I 
ask  for  that  I  need.  I  am  not  concerned  with  the  account.  That 
is  for  my  monastery.  Ai!  the  black  high  seats  in  the  monastery, 
and  the  novices  all  in  order. ' 

And  he  told  stories,  tracing  with  a  finger  in  the  dust,  of  the 


262  KIM 

immense  and  sumptuous  ritual  of  avalanche-guarded  cathedrals; 
of  processions  and  devil-dances;  of  the  changing  of  monks  and  nuns 
into  swine;  of  holy  cities  fifteen  thousand  feet  in  the  air;  of  in- 
trigue between  monastery  and  monastery;  of  voices  among  the 
hills,  and  of  that  mysterious  mirage  that  dances  on  dry  snow.  He 
spoke  even  of  Lhassa  and  of  the  Dalai  Lama,  whom  he  had  seen 
and  adored. 

Each  long,  perfect  day  rose  behind  Kim  for  a  barrier  to  cut 
him  off  from  his  race  and  his  mother  tongue.  He  slipped  back  to 
thinking  and  dreaming  in  the  vernacular,  and  mechanically 
followed  the  lama's  ceremonial  observances  at  eating,  drinking, 
and  the  like.  The  old  man's  mind  turned  more  and  more  to  his 
monastery  as  his  eyes  turned  to  the  steadfast  snows.  His  River 
troubled  him  nothing.  Now  and  again,  indeed,  he  would  gaze 
long  and  long  at  a  tuft  or  a  twig,  expecting,  he  said,  the  earth  to 
cleave  and  deliver  its  blessing;  but  he  was  content  to  be  with  his 
disciple,  at  ease  in  the  temperate  wind  that  comes  down  from  the 
Doon.  This  was  not  Ceylon,  nor  Buddh-Gaya,  nor  Bombay,  nor 
some  grass-tangled  ruins  that  he  seemed  to  have  stumbled  upon 
two  years  ago.  He  spoke  of  them  all  as  a  scholar  removed  from 
vanity,  as  a  Seeker  walking  in  humility,  as  an  old  man,  wise  and 
temperate,  illumining  knowledge  with  brilliant  insight.  Bit  by 
bit,  disconnectedly,  the  story  called  up  by  some  wayside  sight,  he 
spoke  of  all  his  wanderings  up  and  down  Hind;  and  Kim,  who  had 
loved  him  without  reason,  loved  him  now  for  fifty  good  reasons. 
So  they  enjoyed  themselves  in  high  felicity,  abstaining  from  evil 
words,  covetous  desires,  not  over-eating,  not  lying  on  high  beds, 
or  wearing  rich  clothes,  as  the  Rule  demands.  Their  stomach 
told  them  the  time,  and  the  people  gave  them  their  food,  as  the 
saying  is.  They  were  lords  of  the  villages  of  Aminabad,  Sahai- 


KIM  263 

gunge,  Akrola  of  the  Ford,  and  little  Phulesa,  where  Kim  gave 
the  soulless  woman  a  blessing. 

But  news  travels  fast  in  India,  and  too  soon  there  shuffled  across 
the  crop-land,  bearing  a  basket  of  fruits  with  a  box  of  Kabul 
grapes  and  gilt  oranges,  a  white-whiskered  servitor  —  a  lean,  dry, 
Oorya  —  begging  them  to  bring  the  honour  of  their  presence  to 
his  mistress,  distressed  in  her  mind  that  the  lama  had  neglected 
her  so  long. 

1  Now  do  I  remember*  —  the  lama  spoke  as  though  it  were  a 
wholly  new  proposition  —  'she  is  virtuous,  but  an  inordinate 
talker. ' 

Kim  was  sitting  on  the  edge  of  a  cow's  manger,  telling  stories  to 
a  village  smith's  children. 

'She  will  only  ask  for  another  son  for  her  daughter.  I  have  not 
forgotten  her,'  he  said.  'Let  her  acquire  merit.  Send  word  that 
we  will  come.' 

They  covered  eleven  miles  through  the  crop-lands  in  two  days, 
and  were  overwhelmed  with  attentions  at  the  end;  for  the  old 
lady  held  a  fine  tradition  of  hospitality,  to  which  she  forced  her 
son-in-law,  who  was  under  the  thumb  of  his  women-folk  and  bought 
peace  by  borrowing  of  the  money-lender.  Age  had  not  weakened 
her  tongue  or  her  memory,  and  from  a  discreetly  barred  upper 
window,  in  the  hearing  of  not  less  than  a  dozen  servants,  she  paid 
Kim  compliments  that  would  have  flung  European  audiences  into 
unclean  dismay. 

'But  thou  art  still  the  shameless  beggar-brat  of  the  parao,'  she 
shrilled.  'I  have  not  forgotten  thee.  Wash  ye  and  eat.  The 
father  of  my  daughter's  son  is  gone  away  a  while.  So  we  poor 
women  are  dumb  and  useless.' 

For  proof,  she  harangued  the  entire  household  unsparingly  till 


264  KIM 

food  and  drink  were  brought;  and  in  the  evening  —  the  smoke- 
scented  evening,  copper-dun  and  turquoise  across  the  fields  —  it 
pleased  her  to  order  her  palanquin  to  be  set  down  in  the  untidy 
forecourt  by  smoky  torch-light;  and  there,  behind  not  too  closely 
drawn  curtains,  she  gossiped. 

'Had  the  Holy  One  come  alone,  I  should  have  received  him 
otherwise;  but  with  this  rogue,  who  can  be  too  careful?' 

'Maharanee/  said  Kim,  choosing  the  amplest  title,  'is  it  my 
fault  that  none  other  than  a  Sahib  —  a  polis-sahib  —  called  the 
Maharanee  whose  face  he ' 

'Chitt!  That  was  on  the  pilgrimage.  When  we  travel  —  thou 
knowest  the  proverb.' 

'Called  the  Maharanee  a  Breaker  of  Hearts  and  a  Dispenser  of 
Delights?' 

'To  remember  that!  It  was  true.  So  he  did.  That  was  in 
the  time  of  the  bloom  of  my  beauty.'  She  chuckled  like  a 
contented  parrot  above  the  sugar  lump.  'Now  tell  me  of  thy 
goings  and  comings  —  as  much  as  may  be  without  shame.  How 
many  maids,  and  whose  wives,  hang  upon  thy  eyelashes?  Ye 
hail  from  Benares?  I  would  have  gone  there  again  this  year, 
but  my  daughter  —  we  have  only  two  sons.  Phaii!  Such  is  the 
effect  of  these  low  plains.  Now  in  Kulu  men  are  elephants.  But 
I  would  ask  thy  Holy  One  —  stand  aside,  nut-cut  —  a  charm 
against  most  lamentable  windy  colics  that  in  mango-time  over- 
take my  daughter's  eldest.  Two  years  back  he  gave  me  a  power- 
ful spell.' 

'Oh,  Holy  One!'  said  Kim,  bubbling  with  mirth  at  the  lama's 
rueful  face. 

'It  is  true.     I  gave  her  one  against  wind.' 

'Teeth  —  teeth  —  teeth,'  snapped  the  old  woman. 


KIM  265 

'Cure  them  when  they  are  sick,'  Kim  quoted  relishingly,  'but 
by  no  means  work  charms.  Remember  what  befell  the  Mah- 
ratta. ' 

'That  was  two  rains  ago;  she  wearied  me  with  her  continual 
importunity.'  The  lama  groaned  as  the  unjust  judge  had  groaned 
before  him.  'Thus  it  comes  —  take  note,  my  chela  —  that  even 
those  who  would  follow  the  Way  are  thrust  aside  by  idle  women. 
Three  days,  when  the  child  was  sick,  she  talked  to  me.' 

'Arre!  and  to  whom  else  should  I  talk?  The  boy's  mother  knew 
nothing,  and  the  father  -  -  in  the  night  of  the  cold  weather  it  was 
—  "Pray  to  the  Gods"  said  he,  forsooth,  and  turning  over,  snored,' 

'I  gave  her  the  charm.     What  is  an  old  man  to  do?' 

'"To  abstain  from  action  is  well  —  except  when  we  acquire 
merit.'" 

'Ah,  chela,  if  thou  desertest  me,  I  am  all  alone.' 

'He  found  his  milk-teeth  easily  at  any  rate,'  said  the  old  lady. 
'But  all  priests  are  alike.' 

Kim  coughed  severely.  Being  young,  he  did  not  approve  of 
her  flippancy.  'To  importune  the  wise  out  of  season  is  to  invite 
calamity. ' 

'There  is  a  talking  mynah*  —  the  thrust  came  back  with  the 
well-remembered  snap  of  the  jewelled  forefinger  —  'over  the  stables 
which  has  picked  up  the  very  tone  of  the  family  priest.  May  be 
I  forgot  honour  to  my  guests,  but  if  ye  had  seen  him  double  his 
fists  into  his  belly,  which  was  like  a  half-grown  gourd,  and  cry: 
"Here  is  the  pain!"  ye  would  forgive.  I  am  half  minded  to  take 
the  hakim's  medicine.  He  sells  it  cheap,  and  certainly  it  makes 
him  fat  as  Shiv's  own  bull.  He  does  not  deny  remedies,  but  I 
doubted  for  the  child  because  of  the  inauspicious  colour  of  the 
bottles. ' 


266  KIM 

The  lama,  under  cover  of  the  monologue,  had  faded  out  into 
the  darkness  toward  the  room  prepared. 

'Thou  hast  angered  him,  belike,'  said  Kim. 

'Not  he.  He  is  wearied,  and  I  forgot,  being  a  grandmother. 
(None  but  a  grandmother  should  ever  oversee  a  child.  Mothers 
are  only  fit  for  bearing.)  To-morrow,  when  he  sees  how  my 
daughter's  son  is  grown,  he  will  write  the  charm.  Then,  too,  he 
can  judge  of  the  new  hakim's  drugs.' 

'Who  is  the  hakim,  Maharanee?' 

'A  wanderer,  as  thou  art,  but  a  most  sober  Bengali  from  Dacca 
—  a  master  of  medicine.  He  relieved  me  of  an  oppression  after 
meat  by  means  of  a  small  pill  that  wrought  like  a  devil  unchained. 
He  travels  about  now,  vending  preparations  of  great  value.  He 
has  even  papers,  printed  in  Angrezi,  telling  what  things  he  has 
done  for  weak-backed  men  and  slack  women.  He  has  been  here 
four  days;  but  hearing  ye  were  coming  (hakims  and  priests  are 
snake  and  tiger  the  world  over)  he  has,  as  I  take  it,  gone  to  cover.' 

While  she  drew  breath  after  this  volley,  the  ancient  servant, 
sitting  unrebuked  on  the  edge  of  the  torch-light,  muttered:  'This 
house  is  a  cattle-pound,  as  it  were,  for  all  charlatans  and  —  priests. 
Let  the  boy  stop  eating  mangoes  .  .  .  but  who  can  argue  with 
a  'grandmother?'  He  raised  his  voice  respectfully:  'Sahiba,  the 
hakim  sleeps  after  his  meat.  He  is  in  the  quarters  behind  the  dove- 
cot.' 

Kim  bristled  like  an  expectant  terrier.  To  outface  and  down- 
talk  a  Calcutta-taught  Bengali,  a  voluble  Dacca  drug-vendor, 
would  be  a  good  game.  It  was  not  seemly  that  the  lama,  and 
incidentally  himself,  should  be  thrown  aside  for  such  an  one.  He 
knew  those  curious  bastard  English  advertisements  at  the  backs 
of  native  newspapers.  St.  Xavier's  boys  sometimes  brought  them 


KIM  267 

in  by  stealth  to  snigger  over  among  their  mates;  for  the  language 
of  the  grateful  patient  recounting  his  symptoms  is  most  simple  and 
revealing.  The  Oorya,  not  unanxious  to  play  off  one  parasite 
against  the  other,  slunk  away  toward  the  dovecot. 

4 Yes, '  said  Kim,  with  measured  scorn.  'Their  stock-in-trade 
is  a  little  coloured  water  and  a  very  great  shamelessness.  Their 
prey  are  broken-down  kings  and  overfed  Bengalis.  Their  profit 
is  in  children  —  who  are  not  born, ' 

The  old  lady  chuckled.  'Do  not  be  envious.  Charms  are  bet- 
ter, eh  ?  /  never  gainsaid  it.  See  that  thy  Holy  One  writes  me 
a  good  amulet  by  the  morning. ' 

'None  but  the  ignorant  deny'  —  a  thick,  heavy  voice  boomed 
through  the  darkness,  as  a  figure  came  to  rest  squatting  —  'None 
but  the  ignorant  deny  the  value  of  charms.  None  but  the  ignorant 
deny  the  value  of  medicines.' 

'A  rat  found  a  piece  of  turmeric.  Said  he:  "I  will  open  a 
grocer's  shop,'1'  Kim  retorted. 

Battle  was  fairly  joined  now,  and  they  heard  the  old  lady  stiffen  to 
attention. 

'The  priest's  son  knows  the  names  of  his  nurse  and  three  Gods. 
Says  he:  "Hear  me,  or  I  will  curse  you  by  the  three  million  great 
ones.'3  Decidedly  this  invisible  had  an  arrow  or  two  in  his 
quiver.  He  went  on : '  I  am  but  a  teacher  of  the  alphabet.  I  have 
learned  all  the  wisdom  of  the  Sahibs.' 

'The  Sahibs  never  grow  old.  They  dance  and  they  play  like 
children  when  they  are  grandfathers.  A  strong-backed  breed,' 
said  the  voice  inside  the  palanquin. 

'  I  have  our  drugs  which  loosen  humours  of  the  head  for  hot  and 
angry  men  —  sind  well  compounded  when  the  moon  stands  in  the 
proper  House.  Yellow  earths  I  have  —  arplan  from  China  that 


268  KIM 

makes  a  man  renew  his  youth  and  astonish  his  household;  saffron 
from  Kashmir,  and  the  best  salop  of  Kabul.  Many  people  have 
died  before  ' 

'That  I  surely  believe,'  said  Kim. 

'They  knew  the  value  of  my  drugs.  I  do  not  give  my  sick  the 
ink  in  which  a  charm  is  written,  but  hot  and  rending  drugs  which 
descend  and  wrestle  with  the  evil.' 

'Very  mightily  they  do  so,'  sighed  the  old  lady. 

The  voice  launched  into  an  immense  tale  of  misfortune  and 
bankruptcy,  studded  with  plentiful  petitions  to  the  Government. 
'But  for  my  fate,  which  overrules  all,  I  had  been  now  in  Govern- 
ment employ.     I  bear  a  degree  from  the  great  school  at  Calcutta 
-whither,  maybe,  the  son  of  this  house  shall  go.' 

'He  shall  indeed.  If  our  neighbour's  brat  can  in  a  few  years  be 
made  an  F.A.'  (First  Arts  -  -  she  used  the  English  word,  of  which 
she  had  heard  so  much),  'how  much  more  shall  children  clever  as 
some  that  I  know  bear  away  prizes  and  awards  at  rich  Calcutta.' 

'Never,'  said  the  voice,  'have  I  seen  a  child!  Born  in  an 
auspicious  hour,  and  but  for  that  colic  which,  alas!  turning  into 
black  cholera,  may  carry  him  off  like  a  pigeon,  destined  to  many 
years,  he  is  enviable. ' 

'Hai  maif  said  the  old  lady.  'To  praise  children  is  inauspi- 
cious, or  I  could  listen  to  this  talk.  But  the  back  of  the  house  is 
unguarded,  and  even  in  this  soft  air  men  think  themselves  to  be 
rncn  and  women  we  know.  .  .  .  The  child's  father  is  away 
too,  and  I  must  be  chowkedar  (watchman)  in  my  old  age.  Up! 
Up!  Take  up  the  palanquin.  Let  the  hakim  and  the  young 
priest  settle  it  between  them  whether  charms  or  medicine  most 
avail.  Ho!  worthless  people,  fetch  tobacco  for  the  guests,  and  - 
round  the  homestead  go  I!' 


KIM  269 

The  palanquin  reeled  off,  followed  by  straggling  torches  and  a 
horde  of  dogs.  Twenty  villages  knew  the  Sahiba  —  her  failings, 
her  tongue,  and  her  large  charity.  Twenty  villages  cheated  her 
after  immemorial  custom,  but  no  man  would  have  stolen  or  robbed 
within  her  jurisdiction  for  any  gift  under  Heaven.  None  the  less, 
she  made  great  parade  of  her  formal  inspections,  the  riot  of  which 
could  be  heard  half-way  to  Mussoorie. 

Kim  relaxed,  as  one  augur  must  when  he  meets  another.  The 
hakim,  still  squatting,  slid  over  his  hookah  with  a  friendly  foot, 
and  Kim  pulled  at  the  good  weed.  The  hangers-on  expected  grave 
professional  debate,  and  perhaps  a  little  free  doctoring. 

'To  discuss  medicine  before  the  ignorant  is  of  one  piece  with 
teaching  the  peacock  to  sing, '  said  the  hakim. 

'True  courtesy,'  Kim  echoed,  'is  very  often  inattention.' 

These,  be  it  understood,  were  company  manners,  designed  to 
impress. 

'Hi!     I  have  an  ulcer  on  my  leg, '  cried  a  scullion.     'Look  at  it.' 

'Get  hence!  Remove!'  said  the  hakim.  'Is  it  the  habit  of  the 
place  to  pester  honoured  guests?  Ye  crowd  in  like  buffaloes.' 

'If  the  Sahiba  knew '  Kim  began. 

'Ai!  Ai!  Come  away.  They  are  meat  for  our  mistress. 
When  her  young  Shaitan's  colics  are  cured  perhaps  we  poor  peo- 
ple may  be  suffered  to ' 

'The  mistress  fed  thy  wife  when  thou  wast  in  jail  for  breaking 
the  money-lender's  head.  Who  speaks  against  her?'  The  old 
servitor  curled  his  white  moustaches  savagely  in  the  young  moon- 
light. '/  am  responsible  for  the  honour  of  this  house.  Go!'  and 
he  drove  the  underlings  before  him. 

Said  the  hakim,  hardly  more  than  shaping  the  words  with  lips : 
'How  do  you  do,  Mr.  O'Hara?  I  am  jolly  glad  to  see  you  again.' 


270  KIM 

Kim's  hand  clenched  about  the  pipe-stem.  Anywhere  on  the 
open  road,  perhaps,  he  would  not  have  been  astonished;  but  here, 
in  this  quiet  backwater  of  life,  he  was  not  prepared  for  Hurree 
Babu.  It  annoyed  him,  too,  that  he  had  been  hoodwinked. 

'Ah  ha!  I  told  you  at  Lucknow  —  resurgam  —  I  shall  rise 
again  and  you  shall  not  know  me.  How  much  did  you  bet  — 
eh?' 

He  was  hardly  more  than  shaping  the  English  words  with  his  lips. 

'But  why  come  here,  Babuji?' 

Ah!  Thatt  is  the  question,  as  Shakespeare  hath  said.  I  come 
to  congratulate  you  on  your  extraordinary  effeecient  performance 
at  Delhi.  Oah !  I  tell  you  we  are  all  proud  of  you.  It  was  verree 
neat  and  handy.  Our  mutual  friend,  he  is  old  friend  of  mine. 
He  has  been  in  some  damn-tight  places.  Now  he  will  be  in  some 
more.  He  told  me,  I  tell  Mr.  Lurgan,  and  he  is  pleased  you  grad- 
uate so  nicely.  All  the  Department  is  pleased.' 

For  the  first  time  in  his  life,  Kim  thrilled  to  the  clean  pride  (it 
can  be  a  deadly  pitfall,  none  the  less)  of  Departmental  praise — 
ensnaring  praise  from  an  equal  for  work  appreciated  by  a  fellow- 
worker.  Earth  has  nothing  on  the  same  plane  to  compare  with 
it.  But,  said  the  Oriental  in  him,  Babus  do  not  travel  about  to 
retail  compliments. 

'Tell  the  tale,  Babu,'  he  said  authoritatively. 

'Oah,  it  is  nothing.  Onlee  I  was  at  Simla  when  the  wire  came 
in  about  what  our  mutual  friend  said  he  had  hidden,  and  old 

Creighton '  He  looked  to  see  how  Kim  would  take  this 

piece  of  audacity. 

'The  Colonel  Sahib,'  the  boy  from  St.  Xavier's  corrected. 

'Of  course.  He  found  me  at  a  loose  string,  and  I  had  to  go  down 
to  Chitor  to  find  that  beastly  letter.  I  do  not  like  the  South  — 


KIM  271 

too  much  railway  travel;  but  I  drew  good  travelling  allowance. 
Ha!  Ha!  I  meet  our  mutual  at  Delhi  on  the  way  back.  He 
lies  quiett  just  now,  and  says  Saddhu  disguise  suits  him  to  the 
ground.  Well,  there  I  hear  what  you  have  done  so  well,  so  quickly, 
upon  the  instantaneous  spur  of  the  moment.  I  tell  our  mutual 
friend  you  take  the  bally  bun,  by  Jove.  It  was  splendid.  I  come 
to  tell  you  so. ' 

'Umrn!' 

The  pigs  were  busy  in  the  ditches,  and  the  moon  went  to  her 
setting.  Some  happy  servant  had  gone  out  to  commune  with 
the  stars  and  to  beat  upon  a  drum.  Kim's  next  sentence  was  in 
the  vernacular. 

'How  didst  thou  follow  us?' 

'Oah.  Thatt  was  nothing.  I  know  from  our  mutual  friend  you 
go  to  Saharunpore.  So  I  come  on.  Red  lamas  are  not  incon- 
spicuous persons.  I  buy  myself  my  drug-box,  and  I  am  very 
good  doctor  really.  I  go  to  Akrola  by  the  Ford,  and  hear  all  about 
you,  and  I  talk  here  and  talk  there.  All  the  common  people  know 
what  you  do.  I  know  when  the  hospitable  old  lady  sent  the  dooli. 
They  have  great  recollections  of  the  old  lama's  visits  here.  I  know 
old  ladies  cannot  keep  their  hands  from  medicines.  So  I  am  a 
doctor,  and  you  hear  my  talk.  I  think  it  is  verree  good.  My  word 
Mister  O'Hara,  they  know  about  you  and  the  lama  for  fifty  miles 

-  the  common  people.     So  I  come.     Do  you  mind?' 

'Babuji,'  said  Kim,  looking  up  at  the  broad,  grinning  face,  'I 
am  a  Sahib.' 

1  My  dear  Mister  O'Hara ' 

'And  I  hope  to  play  the  Great  Game.' 

'You  are  subordinate  to  me  departmentally  at  present.' 

'Then  why  talk  like  an  ape  in  a  tree?     Men  do  not  come  after 


272  KIM 

one  from  Simla  and  change  their  dress  for  the  sake  of  a  few  sweet 
words.  I  am  not  a  child.  Talk  Hindi  and  let  us  get  to  the  yolk 
of  the  egg.  Thou  art  here  —  speaking  not  one  word  of  truth  in 
ten.  Why  art  thou  here?  Give  a  straight  answer. ' 

'That  is  so  verree  disconcerting  of  the  European,  Mister  O'Hara. 
You  should  know  a  heap  better  at  your  time  of  life.' 

'But  I  want  to  know, '  said  Kim,  laughing.  'If  it  is  the  Game, 
I  may  help.  How  can  I  do  anything  if  you  bukk  (boggle)  all  round 
the  shop?' 

Hurree  Babu  reached  for  the  pipe,  and  sucked  it  till  it  guggled 
again. 

'Now  I  will  speak  vernacular.  You  sit  tight,  Mister  O'Hara. 
It  concerns  the  pedigree  of  a  white  stallion. ' 

'Still?     That  was  finished  long  ago.' 

'When  every  one  is  dead  the  GreafGame  is  finished.  Not 
before.  Listen  to  me  till  the  end.  There  wrere  Five  Kings  who 
prepared  a  sudden  war  three  years  ago,  when  thou  wast  given  the 
stallion's  pedigree  by  Mahbub  AH.  Upon  them,  because  of  that 
news,  and  ere  they  were  ready,  fell  our  Army. ' 

'Ay  -  -  eight  thousand  men  with  guns.     I  remember  that  night. ' 

'But  the  war  was  not  pushed.  That  is  the  Government  cus- 
tom. The  troops  were  recalled  because  the  Government  believed 
the  Five  Kings  were  cowed;  and  it  is  not  cheap  to  feed  men  among 
the  high  passes.  Hilas  and  Bunar  —  Rajahs  with  guns  —  under- 
took for  a  price  to  guard  the  passes  against  all  coming  from  the 
North.  They  protested  both  fear  and  friendship.'  He  broke  off 
with  a  giggle  into  English:  'Of  course,  I  tell  you  this  unofTeecially 
to  elucidate  political  situation,  Mister  O'Hara.  Offeecially  I  am 
debarred  from  criticising  any  action  of  superior.  Now  I  go  on.  — 
This  pleased  the  Sirkar,  anxious  to  avoid  expense,  and  a  bond  was 


KIM  273 

made  for  so  many  rupees  a  month  that  Hilas  and  Bunar  should 
guard  the  passes  as  soon  as  the  State's  troops  were  withdrawn.  At 
that  time  —  it  was  after  we  two  met  —  I,  who  had  been  selling  tea 
in  Leh,  became  a  clerk  of  accounts  in  the  Army.  When  the  troops 
were  withdrawn,  I  was  left  behind  to  pay  the  coolies  who  made 
new  roads  in  the  hills.  This  road-making  was  part  of  the  bond 
between  Bunar,  Hilas,  and  the  Government. ' 

' So;  and  then?' 

'I  tell  you,  it  was  jolly  beastly  cold  up  there  too,  after  India,' 
said  Hurree  Babu  confidentially.  'I  was  afraid  these  Bunar  men 
would  cut  my  throat  every  night  for  thee  pay-chest.  My  native 
sepoy  guard,  they  laughed  at  me!  By  Jove!  I  was  such  a  fearful 
man.  Nevah  mind  thatt.  I  go  on  colloquially. —  I  send  word 
many  times  that  these  two  Kings  were  sold  to  the  North;  and 
Mahbub  Ali,  who  was  yet  farther  north,  amply  confirmed  it. 
Nothing  was  done.  Only  my  feet  were  frozen,  and  a  toe  dropped 
off.  I  sent  word  that  the  roads  for  which  I  was  paying  money  to 
the  diggers  were  being  made  for  the  feet  of  strangers  and  enemies. ' 

'For?' 

'For  the  Russians.  The  thing  was  an  open  jest  among  the 
coolies.  Then  I  was  called  down  to  tell  what  I  knew  by  speech  of 
tongue.  Mahbub  came  south  too.  See  the  end!  Over  the  passes 
this  year  after  snow-melting'  —  he  shivered  afresh  —  'come  two 
strangers  under  cover  of  shooting  wild  goats.  They  bear  guns, 
but  they  bear  also  chains  and  levels  and  compasses.' 

'Oho!     The  thing  gets  clearer.' 

'They  are  well  received  by  Hilas  and  Bunar.  They  make  great 
promises;  they  speak  as  the  mouth-piece  of  a  Kaisar  with  gifts. 
Up  the  valleys,  down  the  valleys  go  they,  saying,  "Here  is  a  place 
to  build  a  breastwork;  here  can  ye  pitch  a  fort.  Here  can  ye  hold 


274  KIM 

the  road  against  an  army"  —  the  very  roads  for  which  I  paid  out 
the  rupees  monthly.  The  Sirkar  knows,  but  does  nothing.  The 
three  other  Kings,  who  were  not  paid  for  guarding  the  passes,  tell 
them  by  runners  of  the  bad  faith  of  Bunar  and  Hil£s.  When  all 
the  evil  is  done,  look  you  —  when  these  two  strangers  with  the 
levels  and  the  compasses  make  the  Five  Kings  to  believe  that  a 
great  army  will  sweep  the  passes  to-morrow  or  the  next  day  — 
hill  people  are  all  fools  —  comes  the  order  to  me,  Hurree  Babu, 
"Go  North  and  see  what  those  strangers  do."  I  say  to  Creighton 
Sahib,  "This  is  not  a  lawsuit,  that  we  go  about  to  collect  evidence." 
He  returned  to  his  English  with  a  jerk:  '"By  Jove,"  I  said,  "why 
the  dooce  do  you  not  issue  demi-offeecial  orders  to  some  brave  man 
to  poison  them,  for  an  example?  It  is,  if  you  permit  the  obser- 
vation, most  reprehensible  laxity  on  your  part. "  And  Colonel 
Creighton,  he  laughed  at  me!  It  is  all  that  beastly  English  pride. 
You  think  no  one  dare  conspire!  That  is  all  tommy-rot.' 

Kim  smoked  slowly,  revolving  the  business,  so  far  as  he  under- 
stood it,  in  his  mind. 

'Then  thou  goest  forth  to  follow  the  strangers?' 

'No;  to  meet  them.  They  are  coming  in  to  Simla  to  send  down 
their  horns  and  heads  to  be  dressed  at  Calcutta.  They  are  ex- 
clusively sporting  gentlemen,  and  they  are  allowed  special  faceel- 
ities  by  the  Government.  Of  course,  we  always  do  that.  It  is 
our  British  pride.' 

'Then  what  is  to  fear  from  them?' 

'By  Jove,  they  are  not  black  people.  I  can  do  all  sorts  of 
things  with  black  people,  of  course.  They  are  Russians,  and 
highly  unscrupulous  people.  I  —  I  do  not  want  to  consort  with 
them  without  a  witness.' 

'Will  they  kill  thee?' 


KIM  275 

'Oah,  thatt  is  nothing.  I  am  good  enough  Herbert  Spencer- 
ian,  I  trust,  to  meet  little  thing  like  death,  which  is  all  in  my  fate, 
you  know.  But  —  but  they  may  beat  me. ' 

'Why?' 

Hurree  Babu  snapped  his  ringers  with  irritation.  'Of  course 
I  shall  affeeliate  myself  to  their  camp  in  supernumerary  capacity 
as  perhaps  interpreter,  or  person  mentally  impotent  and  hungree, 
or  some  such  thing.  And  then  I  must  pick  up  what  I  can,  I  sup- 
pose. That  is  easy  for  me  as  playing  Mister  Doctor  to  the  old 
lady.  Onlee  —  onlee  —  you  see,  Mister  O'Hara,  I  am  unfortu- 
nately Asiatic,  which  is  a  serious  detriment  in  some  respects.  And 
allso  I  am  Bengali  —  a  fearful  man. ' 

' God  made  the  hare  and  the  Bengali.  What  shame?'  said  Kim, 
quoting  the  proverb. 

'It  was  process  of  Evolution,  I  think,  from  Primal  Necessity, 
but  the  fact  remains  in  all  its  cui  bono.  I  am,  oh,  awfully  fearful 
—  I  remember  once  they  wanted  to  cut  off  my  head  on  the  road 
to  Lhassa.  (No,  I  have  never  reached  to  Lhassa.)  I  sat  down 
and  cried,  Mister  O'Hara,  anticipating  Chinese  tortures.  I  do 
not  suppose  these  two  gentlemen  will  torture  me,  but  I  like  to 
provide  for  possible  contingency  with  European  assistance  in 
emergency.'  He  coughed  and  spat  out  the  cardamoms.  'It  is 
purely  unoffeecial  request,  to  which  you  can  say  "No,  Babu.'5 
If  you  have  no  pressing  engagement  with  your  old  man  —  perhaps 
you  might  divert  him;  perhaps  I  can  seduce  his  fancies  —  I  should 
like  you  to  keep  in  Departmental  touch  with  me  -  -  till  I  find  those 
sporting  coves.  I  have  great  opeenion  of  you  since  I  met  my 
friend  at  Delhi.  And  also  I  will  embody  your  name  in  my  offeecial 
report  when  matter  is  finally  adjudicated.  It  will  be  a  great 
feather  in  your  cap.  That  is  why  I  come  really.1 


276  KIM 

*  Humph!  The  end  of  the  tale,  I  think,  is  true;  but  what  of 
the  fore  part?' 

'About  the  Five  Kings?  Oah!  there  is  ever  so  much  truth  iA  lt:- 
A  lots  more  than  you  would  suppose,'  said  Hurree  earne?^- 

'You  come  —  eh?     I  go  from  here  straight  into  the  Doon.     Jt  is 
verree  verdant  and  painted  meads.      I  shall  go  to  MussooriP 
to  good  old  Mussoorie  Pahar,  as  the  gentlemen  and  ladies  ?aY- 
Then  by  Rampur  into  Chini.     That  is  the  only  way  they  can  come- 
I  do  not  like  waiting  in  the  cold,  but  we  must  wait  for  them; 
want  to  walk  with  them  to  Simla.     You  see,  one  Russian  Is  a 
Frenchman,  and  I  know  my  French  pretty  well.     I  have  friend8  m 
Chundernagore. ' 

6 He  would  certainly  rejoice  to  see  the  Hills  again/  said  I^im 
meditatively.  'All  his  speech  these  ten  days  past  has  been  °* 
little  else.  If  we  go  together  - 

'Oh!  We  can  be  quite  strangers  on  the  road,  if  your  lama  p)re~ 
fers.  I  shall  just  be  four  or  five  miles  ahead.  There  is  no 
hurry  for  Murree.  That  is  an  Europe  pun,  ha!  ha!  and  you  cdme 
after.  There  is  plenty  of  time;  they  will  plot  and  survey  £nd 
map  of  course.  I  shall  go  to-morrow,  and  you  the  next  day  " 
you  choose.  Eh?  You  go  think  on  it  till  morning.  By  Jove?  lt: 
is  near  morning  now.'  He  yawned  ponderously,  and  with  never 
a  civil  word  lumbered  off  to  his  sleeping-place.  But  Kim  slPP* 
little,  and  his  thoughts  ran  in  Hindustanee. 

'Well  is  the  Game  called  great!  I  was  four  days  a  scullion  at 
Quetta,  waiting  on  the  wife  of  the  man  whose  book  I  stole.  ARd 
that  was  part  of  the  Great  Game!  From  the  South  —  God  knows 
how  far —  came  up  the  Mahratta,  playing  the  Great  Game  m 
fear  of  his  life.  Now  I  shall  go  far  and  far  into  the  North  playing 
the  Great  Game.  Truly,  it  runs  like  a  shuttle  throughout 


KIM  277 

Hind.  And  my  share  and  my  joy '  —  he  smiled  to  the  darkness 
— '  I  owe  to  the  lama  here.  Also  to  Mahbub  AH  —  also  to 
Creighton  Sahib,  but  chiefly  to  the  Holy  One.  He  is  right  —  a 
great  and  a  wonderful  world  —  and  I  am  Kim  —  Kim  —  Kim  — 
alone  —  one  person  —  in  the  middle  of  it  all.  But  I  will  see  these 
strangers  with  their  levels  and  chains. ' 

'What  was  the  upshot  of  last  night's  babble?'  said  the  lama, 
after  his  orisons. 

'There  came  a  strolling  seller  of  drugs  —  a  hanger-on  of  the 
Sahiba's.  Him  I  abolished  by  arguments  and  prayers,  proving 
that  our  charms  are  worthier  than  his  coloured  waters.' 

'Alas!  my  charms.  Is  the  virtuous  woman  still  bent  upon  a 
new  one?' 

'Very  strictly.' 

'Then  it  must  be  written,  or  she  will  deafen  me  with  her  clam- 
our.' He  fumbled  at  his  pencase. 

'In  the  plains,'  said  Kim,  'are  always  too  many  people.  In 
the  hills,  as  I  understand,  there  are  fewer. ' 

'Oh!  the  hills,  and  the  snow  upon  the  hills.'  The  lama  tore  off 
a  tiny  square  of  paper  fit  to  go  in  an  amulet.  'But  what  dost  thou 
know  of  the  hills  ? ' 

'They  are  very  close.'  Kim  thrust  open  the  door  and  looked 
at  the  long,  peaceful  line  of  the  Himalayas  flushed  in  morning 
gold.  'Except  in  the  dress  of  a  Sahib,  I  have  never  set  foot 
among  them.' 

The  lama  snuffed  the  wind  wistfully. 

'If  we  go  north,'  -Kim  put  the  question  to  the  waking  sun- 
rise,—  'would  not  much  mid-day  heat  be  avoided  by  walking 
among  the  lower  hills  at  least?  ...  Is  the  charm  made, 
Holy  One?' 


278  KIM 

'  I  have  written  the  names  of  seven  silly  devils  —  not  one  of 
whom  is  worth  a  grain  of  dust  in  the  eye.  Thus  do  foolish  women 
drag  us  from  the  Way!' 

Hurree  Babu  came  out  from  behind  the  dovecot,  washing  his 
teeth  with  ostentatious  ritual.  Full-fleshed,  heavy-haunched, 
bull-necked,  and  deep-voiced,  he  did  not  look  like  'a  fearful  man.' 
Kim  signed  almost  imperceptibly  that  matters  were  in  good  train, 
and  when  the  morning  toilet  was  over  Hurree  Babu,  in  flowery 
speech,  came  to  do  honour  to  the  lama.  They  ate,  of  course, 
apart,  and  afterward  the  old  lady,  more  or  less  veiled  behind  a 
window,  returned  to  the  vital  business  of  green-mango  colics  in  the 
young.  The  lama's  knowledge  of  medicine  was  of  course  sympa- 
thetic only.  He  believed  that  the  dung  of  a  black  horse,  mixed 
with  sulphur,  and  carried  in  a  snake-skin,  was  a  sound  remedy  for 
cholera;  but  the  symbolism  interested  him  far  more  than  the 
science.  Hurree  Babu  deferred  to  these  views  with  enchanting 
politeness,  so  that  the  lama  called  him  a  courteous  physician. 
Hurree  Babu  replied  that  he  was  no  more  than  an  inexpert  dabbler 
in  the  mysteries;  but  at  least  —  he  thanked  the  Gods  therefor  — 
he  knew  when  he  sat  in  the  presence  of  a  master.  He  himself  had 
been  taught  by  the  Sahibs,  who  do  not  consider  expense,  in  the 
lordly  halls  of  Calcutta;  but,  as  he  was  ever  first  to  acknowledge, 
there  lay  a  wisdom  behind  earthly  wisdom  —  the  high  and  lonely 
lore  of  meditation.  Kim  looked  on  with  envy.  The  Hurree  Babu 
of  his  knowledge  —  oily,  effusive,  and  nervous  —  was  gone;  gone 
too  was  the  braggart  drug-vendor  of  overnight.  There  remained 
—  polished,  polite,  attentive  —  a  sober,  learned  son  of  experience 
and  adversity,  gathering  wisdom  from  the  lama's  lips.  The  old 
lady  confided  to  Kim  that  these  rare  levels  were  beyond  her.  She 
liked  charms  with  plenty  of  ink  that  one  could  wash  off  in  water, 


'FULL-FLESHED,  HEAVY-HAUNCHED,  BULL-NECKED, 
AND  DEEP-VOICED' 


KIM  279 

swallow,  and  be  done  with.  Else  what  was  the  use  of  the  Gods? 
She  liked  men  and  women,  and  she  spoke  of  them  —  of  kinglets 
she  had  known  in  the  past;  of  her  own  youth  and  beauty;  of  the 
depredations  of  leopards  and  the  eccentricities  of  Asiatic  love;  of 
the  incidence  of  taxation,  rack-renting,  funeral  ceremonies,  her 
son-in-law  (this  by  allusion,  easy  to  be  followed),  the  care  of  the 
young,  and  the  world's  lack  of  decency.  And  Kim,  as  interested 
in  the  life  of  this  world  as  she  who  was  soon  to  leave  it,  squatted 
with  his  feet  under  the  hem  of  his  robe,  drinking  it  all  in,  while 
the  lama  demolished  one  after  another  every  theory  of  body- 
curing  put  forward  by  Hurree  Babu. 

At  noon  the  Babu  strapped  up  his  brass-bound  drug-box,  took 
his  patent-leather  shoes  of  ceremony  in  one  hand,  a  gay  blue  and 
white  umbrella  in  the  other,  and  set  off  northward  to  the  Doon, 
where,  he  said,  he  was  in  demand  among  the  lesser  kings  of  those 
parts. 

'We  will  go  in  the  cool  of  the  evening,  chela,'  said  the  lama. 

0 

'That  doctor,  learned  in  physic  and  courtesy,  affirms  that  the 
people  among  these  lower  hills  are  devout,  generous,  and  much 
in  need  of  a  teacher.  In  a  very  short  time  —  so  says  the  hakim 
—  we  come  to  cool  air  and  the  smell  of  pines.' 

'Ye  go'to'the  Hills.  And  by  Kulu  road?  Oh,  thrice  happy!' 
shrilled  the'old  lady.  'But  that  I  am  a  little  pressed  with  the 
care  of  the 'homestead  I  would  take  palanquin  .  .  .  but  that 
would  be. shameless,  and  my  reputation  would  be  cracked.  Ho! 
Ho!  I  know  the  road  —  every  march  of  the  road  I  know.  Ye 
will  find  charity  throughout  —  it  is  not  denied  to  the  well-looking. 
I  will  give  orders  for  provision.  A  servant  to  set  you  forth  upon 
your  journey?  No.  .  .  .  Then  I  will  at  least  cook  ye  good 
food.' 


28o  KIM 

'What  a  woman  is  the  Sahiba!'  said  the  white-bearded  Oorya, 
when  a  tumult  rose  by  the  kitchen  quarters.  'She  has  never  for- 
gotten a  friend :  she  has  never  forgotten  an  enemy  in  all  her  years. 
And  her  cookery  —  wah!'  He  rubbed  his  slim  stomach. 

There  were  cakes,  there  were  sweetmeats,  there  was  cold  fowl 
stewed  to  rags  with  rice  and  prunes  —  enough  to  burden  Kim 
like  a  mule. 

'I  am  old  and  useless,'  she  said.  'None  now  love  me  —  and 
none  respect  —  but  there  are  few  to  compare  with  me  \vhen  I  call 
on  the  Gods  and  squat  to  my  cookery-pots.  Come  again,  O  people 
of  good  will.  Holy  One  and  disciple,  come  again.  The  room  is 
always  prepared;  the  welcome  is  always  ready.  .  .  .  See,  the 
women  do  follow  thy  chela  too  openly.  /  know  the  women  of  Kulu. 
Take  heed,  chela,  lest  he  do  not  run  away  when  he  smells  his  Hills 
again.  .  .  .  Hai!  Do  not  tilt  the  rice-bag  upside  down.  .  . 
Bless  the  household,  Holy  One,  and  forgive  thy  servant  her  stu- 
pidities.' 

She  wiped  her  red  old  eyes  on  a  corner  of  her  veil,  and  clucked 
throatily. 

4 Women  talk,'  said  the  lama  at  last,  'but  that  is  a  woman's 
infirmity.  I  gave  her  a  charm.  She  is  upon  the  Wheel  and  wholly 
given  over  to  the  shows  of  this  life,  but  none  the  less,  chela,  she  is 
virtuous,  kindly,  hospitable  —  of  a  whole  and  zealous  heart.  Who 
shall  say  she  does  not  acquire  merit?' 

'Not  I,  Holy  One,'  said  Kim,  reslinging  the  bountiful  provisions 
on  his  shoulders.  'In  my  mind  —  behind  my  eyes  -  - 1  have  tried 
to  picture  such  an  one  altogether  freed  from  the  Wheel  —  desiring 
nothing,  causing  nothing  —  a  nun,  as  it  were.' 

'And,  O  imp?'     The  lama  almost  laughed  aloud. 

'I  cannot  make  the  picture.' 


KIM  281 

'Nor  I.  But  there  are  many,  many  millions  of  lives  before  her. 
She  will  get  wisdom  a  little,  it  may  be,  in  each  one. ' 

4 And  will  she  forget  how  to  make  stews  with  saffron  upon  that 
road?' 

'Thy  mind  is  set  on  things  unworthy.  But  she  has  skill.  I  am 
refreshed  all  over.  When  we  reach  the  lower  hills  I  shall  be  yet 
stronger.  The  hakim  spoke  truly  to  me  this  morn  when  he  said  a 
breath  from  the  snows  blows  away  twenty  years  from  the  life  of  a 
man.  We  will  go  up  into  the  hills  —  the  high  hills  —  up  to  the 
sound  of  snow-water  and  the  sound  of  the  trees  —  for  a  little  while. 
The  hakim  said  that  at  any  time  we  may  return  to  the  plains,  for 
we  do  no  more  than  skirt  the  pleasant  places.  The  hakim  is  full 
of  learning;  but  he  is  in  no  way  proud.  I  spoke  to  him  —  when 
thou  wast  talking  to  the  Sahiba  —  of  a  certain  dizziness  that  lays 
hold  upon  the  back  of  my  neck  in  the  night,  and  he  said  it  rose 
from  excessive  heat  —  to  be  cured  by  cool  air.  Upon  consider- 
ation, I  marvelled  that  I  had  not  thought  of  such  a  simple  remedy. ' 

'Didst  thou  tell  him  of  thy  Search?'  said  Kim,  a  little  jealously. 
He  preferred  to  sway  the  lama  by  his  own  speech  —  not  through 
the  wiles  of  Hurree  Babu. 

'Assuredly.  I  told  him  of  my  dream,  and  of  the  manner  by 
which  I  had  acquired  merit  by  causing  thee  to  be  taught  wisdom.' 

'Thou  didst  not  say  I  was  a  Sahib?' 

'What  need?  I  have  told  thee  many  times  we  be  but  two 
souls  seeking  escape.  He  said  —  and  he  is  just  herein  -  -  that  the 
River  of  Healing  will  break  forth  even  as  I  dreamed  —  at  my  feet 
if  need  be.  Having  found  the  Way,  seest  thou,  that  shall  free  me 
from  the  Wheel,  should  I  trouble  to  find  a  way  about  the  mere 
fields  of  earth  —  which  are  illusion?  That  were  senseless.  I  have 
my  dreams,  night  upon  night  repeated;  I  have  the  Jataka;  and  I 


282  K  I  M 

have  thee,  Friend  of  all  the  World.  It  was  written  in  thy  horo- 
scope that  a  Red  Bull  on  a  green  field  —  I  have  not  forgotten  — 
should  bring  thee  to  honour.  Who  but  I  saw  that  prophecy  ac- 
complished? Indeed,  I  was  the  instrument.  Thou  shalt  find  me 
my  River,  being  in  return  the  instrument.  The  Search  is  great.' 
He  set  his  ivory-yellow  face,  serene  and  untroubled,  toward  the 
beckoning  hills;  his  shadow  shouldering  far  before  him  in  the  dust. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

Who  hath  desired  the  Sea  —  the  immense  and  contemptuous  surges? 
The  shudder,  the  stumble,  the  swerve  ere  the  star-stabbing  bowsprit  emerges  — 
The  orderly  clouds  of  the  trade  and  the  ridged  roaring  sapphire  thereunder  — 
Unheralded  cliff-lurking  flaws  and  the  head-sails  low-volleying  thunder? 
His  Sea  in  no  wonder  the  same  —  his  Sea  and  the  same  in  each  wonder. 

His  Sea  that  his  being  fulfils? 
So  and  no  otherwise  —  so  and  no  otherwise  hillmen  desire  their  Hills! 

'WHO  goes  to  the  Hills  goes  to  his  mother.' 

They  had  crossed  the  Sewaliks  and  the  half-tropical  Doon,  left 
Mussoorie  behind  them,  and  headed  north  along  the  narrow  hill- 
roads.  Day  after  day  they  struck  deeper  into  the  huddled  moun- 
tains, and  day  after  day  Kim  watched  the  lama  return  to  a  man's 
strength.  Among  the  terraces  of  the  Doon  he  had  leaned  on  the 
boy's  shoulder,  ready  to  profit  by  wayside  halts.  Under  the  great 
ramp  to  Mussoorie  he  drew  himself  together  as  an  oM  -hunter  faces 
a  well-remembered  bank,  and  where  he  should  have  dropped  ex- 
hausted swung  his  long  draperies  about  him,  drew  a  deep  double 
lungful  of  the  diamond  air,  and  walked  as  only  a  hillman  can. 
Kim,  plains-bred  and  plains-fed,  sweated  and  panted  astonished. 
'This  is  my  country,'  said  the  lama.  ( Beside  Suchzen,  this  is 
flatter  than  a  rice-field;'  and  with  steady,  driving  strokes  from  the 
loins  he  strode  upwards.  But  it  was  on  the  steep  downhill  marches, 
three  thousand  feet  in  three  hours,  that  he  went  utterly  away  from 
Kim,  whose  back  ached  with  holding  back,  and  whose  big  toe  was 
nigh  cut  off  by  his  grass  sandal-string.  Through  the  speckled 

283 


284  KIM 

shadow  of  the  great  deodar  forests;  through  oak  feathered  and 
plumed  with  ferns,  birch,  ilex,  rhododendron,  and  pine,  out  on  to 
the  bare  hillsides'  slippery  sunburnt  grass,  and  back  into  the  wood- 
lands' coolth  again,  till  oak  gave  way  to  bamboo  and  palm  of  the 
valley,  he  swung  untiring. 

Glancing  back  in  the  twilight  at  the  huge  ridges  behind  him 
and  the  faint,  thin  line  of  the  road  whereby  they  had  come,  he 
would  lay  out,  with  a  hillman's  generous  breadth  of  vision,  fresh 
marches  for  the  morrow;  or,  halting  in  the  neck  of  some  uplifted 
pass  that  gave  on  Spite  and  Kulu,  would  stretch  out  his  hands 
yearningly  towards  the  high  snows  of  the  horizon.  In  the  dawns 
they  flamed  windy  red  above  stark  blue,  as  Kedarnath  and  Bad- 
junath  -  -  kings  of  that  wilderness  -  -  took  the  first  sunlight.  All 
day  long  they  lay  like  molten  silver  under  the  sun,  and  at  evening 
put  on  their  jewels  again.  At  first  they  breathed  temperately 
upon  the  travellers,  winds  good  to  meet  when  one  crawled  over 
some  gigantic  hog-back;  but  in  a  few  days,  at  a  height  of  nine  or 
ten  thousand  feet,  those  breezes  bit;  and  Kim  kindly  allowed  a 
village  of  hillmen  to  acquire  merit  by  giving  him  a  rough  blanket 
coat.  The  lama  was  mildly  surprised  that  any  one  could  object 
to  the  knife-edged  breezes  that  had  cut  the  years  off  his  shoulders. 

'These  are  but  the  lower  hills,  chela.  There  is  no  cold  till  we 
come  to  the  true  mountains.' 

'Air  and  water  are  good,  and  the  people  are  devout  enough,  but 
the  food  is  very  bad,'  Kim  growled;  'and  we  walk  as  though  we 
were  mad  -  -  or  English.  It  freezes  at  night,  too.' 

'A  little,  maybe;  but  only  enough  to  make  old  bones  rejoice  in 
the  sun.  We  must  not  always  delight  in  the  soft  beds  and  rich 
food.' 

'  We  might  at  the  least  keep  to  the  road. ' 


KIM  285 

Kim  had  all  a  plains-man's  affection  for  the  well-trodden  track, 
not  six  feet  wide,  that  snaked  among  the  mountains ;  but  the  lama, 
being  Tibetan,  could  not,  for  the  life  of  him,  refrain  from  short  cuts 
over  spurs  and  the  rims  of  gravel-strewn  slopes.  As  he  explained 
to  his  doubting  disciple,  a  man  bred  among  mountains  can  proph- 
esy the  course  of  a  mountain-road,  and  though  low-lying  clouds 
might  be  a  hindrance  to  a  short-cutting  stranger,  they  made  no 
earthly  difference  to  a  thoughtful  man.  Thus,  after  long  hours  of 
what  would  be  reckoned  very  fair  mountaineering  in  civilized  coun- 
tries, they  would  drop  over  a  saddle-back,  sidle  past  a  few  land- 
slips, and  drop  through  forest  at  an  angle  of  forty-five  onto  the 
road  again.  Along  their  tracks  lay  the  villages  of  the  hill-folk  — • 
mud  and  earth  huts,  timbers  now  and  then  rudely  carved  with  an 
axe  —  clinging  like  swallows'  nests  against  the  steeps;  huddled  on 
tiny  flats  half-way  down  a  three-thousand-foot  glissade;  jammed 
into  a  corner  between  cliffs  that  funnelled  and  focused  every  wan- 
dering blast;  or,  for  the  sake  of  summer  pasture,  cowering  down  on 
a  neck  that  in  winter  would  be  ten  feet  deep  in  snow.  And  the 
people  —  the  sallow,  greasy,  duffle-clad  people,  with  short  bare 
legs  and  faces  almost  Esquimaux  —  would  flock  out  and  adore. 
The  Plains  —  kindly  and  gentle  —  had  treated  the  lama  as  a  holy 
man  among  holy  men.  But  the  Hills  worshipped  him  as  one  in  the 
confidence  of  all  the  devils.  Theirs  was  an  almost  obliterated 
Buddhism,  overlaid  with  a  nature-worship  fantastic  as  their  own 
landscapes,  elaborate  as  the  terracing  of  their  tiny  fields;  but  they 
recognized  the  big  hat,  the  clicking  rosary,  and  the  rare  Chinese 
texts  for  great  authority,  and  they  respected  the  man  under  the  hat. 

'We  saw  thee  come  down  over  the  black  breasts  of  Eua, '  said  a 
Betah  who  gave  them  cheese,  sour  milk,  and  stone-hard  bread  one 
evening.  'We  do  not  use  that  often  —  except  when  calving  cows 


286  KIM 

stray  in  summer.  There  is  a  sudden  wind  among  those  stones 
that  casts  men  down  on  the  stillest  day.  But  what  should  such 
folk  care  for  the  Devil  of  Eau ! ' 

Then  did  Kim,  aching  in  every  fibre,  dizzy  with  looking  down, 
footsore  with  cramping  desperate  toes  into  inadequate  crannies, 
take  joy  in  the  day's  march  —  such  joy  as  a  boy  of  St.  Xavier's 
who  had  won  the  quarter-mile  in  the  flat  might  take  in  the  praises 
of  his  friends.  The  hills  sweated  the  ghi  and  sugar  suet  off  his 
bones;  the  dry  air,  taken  sobbingly  at  the  head  of  cruel  passes, 
firmed  and  built  out  his  upper  ribs:  and  the  tilted  levels  put  new 
hard  muscles  into  calf  and  thigh. 

They  meditated  often  on  the  Wheel  of  Life  —  the  more  so  since, 
as  the  lama  said,  they  were  freed  from  its  visible  temptations. 
Except  the  gray  eagle  and  an  occasional  far-seen  bear  grubbing 
and  rooting  on  the  hillside,  the  vision  of  a  furious  painted  leopard 
seen  at  dawn  in  a  still  valley  devouring  a  goat,  and  now  and  again 
a  bright-coloured  bird,  they  were  alone  with  the  winds  and  the 
grass  singing  under  the  wind.  The  women  of  the  smoky  huts 
over  whose  roofs  the  two  walked  as  they  descended  the  moun- 
tains were  unlovely  and  unclean  wives  of  many  husbands,  and 
afflicted  with  goitre.  The  men  were  wood-cutters  when  they  were 
not  farmers  —  meek,  and  of  an  incredible  simplicity.  But  that 
suitable  discourse  might  not  fail,  Fate  sent  them,  overtaking  and 
overtaken  upon  the  road,  the  courteous  Dacca  physician,  who 
paid  for  his  food  in  ointments  good  for  goitre  and  counsels  that 
restore  peace  between  men  and  women.  He  seemed  to  know 
these  hills  as  well  as  he  knew  the  hill  dialects,  and  gave  the  lama 
the  lie  of  the  land  toward  Ladakh  and  Tibet.  He  said  they  could 
return  to  the  plains  at  any  moment.  Meantime,  for  such  as  loved 
mountains,  yonder  road  might  amuse.  This  was  not  all  revealed 


KIM  287 

in  a  breath,  but  at  evening  encounters  on  the  stone  threshing-floors, 
when,  patients  disposed  of,  the  doctor  would  smoke  and. -the  lama 
snuff,  while  Kim  watched  the  wee  cows  grazing  on  the  house-tops, 
or  threw  his  soul  after  his  eye  across  the  deep  blue  gulfs  between 
range  and  range.  And  there  were  talks  apart  in  the  deep  woods, 
when  the  doctor  would  seek  herbs,  and  Kim,  as  budding  physician, 
must  accompany  him. 

'You  see,  Mister  O'Hara,  I  do  not  know  what  the  deuce  an'  all 
I  shall  do  when  I  find  our  sporting  friends;  but  if  you  will  kindly 
keep  within  sight  of  my  umbrella,  which  is  fine  fixed  point  for 
cadastral  survey,  I  feel  much  better.' 

Kim  looked  out  across  the  jungle  of  peaks.  'This  is  not  my 
country,  hakim.  Easier,  I  think,  to  find  one  louse  in  a  bearskin.' 

'Oah,  thatt  is  my  strong  points.  There  is  no  hurry  for  Hurree. 
They  were  at  Leh  not  so  long  ago.  They  said  they  had  come  down 
from  the  Kara  Korum  with  their  heads  and  horns  and  all.  I  am 
onlee  afraid  they  will  have  sent  back  all  their  letters  and  com- 
promising things  from  Leh  into  Russian  territoree.  Of  course 
they  will  walk  away  as  far  to  the  East  as  possible  -  -  just  to  show 
that  they  were  never  among  the  Western  States.  You  do  not 
know  the  Hills?'  He  scratched  with  a  twig  on  the  earth.  'Look! 
They  should  have  come  in  by  Srinagar  or  Abbottabad.  Thatt  is 
their  short  road  —  down  the  river  by  Bunji  and  Astor.  But  they 
have  made  mischief  in  the  West.  So!'  He  drew  a  furrow  from 
left  to  right.  'They  march  and  they  march  away  East  to  Leh 
(ah!  it  is  cold  there),  and  down  the  Indus  to  Han-le  (I  know  that 
road),  and  then  down,  you  see,  to  Bushahr  and  Chini  valley. 
That  is  ascertained  by  process  of  elimination,  and  also  by  asking 
questions  from  people  that  I  cure  so  well.  Our  friends  have  been 
a  long  time  playing  about  and  producing  impressions.  So  they 


288  K  I  M 

are  well  known  from  far  off.  You  will  see  me  catch  them  some- 
where in  Chini  valley.  Please  keep  your  eye  on  the  umbrella.' 

It  nodded  like  a  wind-blown  harebell  down  the  valleys  and 
round  the  mountain  sides,  and  in  due  time  the  lama  and  Kim, 
who  steered  by  compass,  would  overhaul  it,  vending  ointments 
and  powders  at  eventide.  'We  came  by  such  and  such  a  way!' 
The  lama  wrould  throw  a  careless  finger  backward  at  the  ridges, 
and  the  umbrella  would  expend  itself  in  compliments. 

They  crossed  a  snowy  pass  by  cold  moonlight,  and  the  lama, 
mildly  chaffing  Kim,  went  through  up  to  his  knees,  like  a  Bactrian 
camel  —  the  snow-bred,  shag-haired  sort  that  come  into  the  Kash- 
mir Serai.  They  dipped  across  beds  of  light  snow  and  snow- 
powdered  shale,  where  they  took  refuge  from  a  gale  in  a  camp  of 
Tibetans  hurrying  down  tiny  sheep,  each  laden  with  a  bag  of  borax. 
They  came  out  upon  grassy  shoulders  still  snow-speckled,  and 
through  forest,  to  pass  anew.  For  all  their  marchings,  Kedarnath 
and  Badrinath  were  not  impressed;  and  it  was  only  after  days  of 
travel  that  Kim,  uplifted  upon  some  insignificant  ten-thousand- 
foot  hummock,  could  see  that  a  shoulder-knot  or  horn  of  the  two 
great  lords  had  -  -  ever  so  slightly  —  changed  outline. 

At  last  they  came  into  a  world  within  a  world  -  -  a  valley  of 
leagues  where  the  high  hills  were  fashioned  of  the  rubble  and  refuse 
from  off  the  knees  of  the  mountains.  Here  one  day's  march 
carried  them  no  farther,  it  seemed,  than  a  dreamer's  clogged  pace 
bears  him  in  a  nightmare.  They  skirted  a  shoulder  painfully  for 
hours,  and,  behold,  it  was  but  an  out-lying  boss  in  an  outlying  but- 
tress of  the  main  pile!  A  rounded  meadow  revealed  itself,  when 
they  had  reached  it,  as  a  vast  tableland  running  far  into  the  valley. 
Three  days  later,  it  was  but  a  fold  in  the  earth  to  southward. 

'  Surely  the  Gods  live  here, '  said  Kim,  beaten  down  by  the  silence 


KIM  289 

and  the  appalling  sweep  and  dispersal  of  the  cloud-shadows  after 
rain.     'This  is  no  place  for  men.' 

'Long  and  long  ago,'  said  the  lama,  as  to  himself,  'it  was  asked 
of  the  Lord  whether  the  word  were  everlasting.  To  this  the  Ex- 
cellent One  returned  no  answer.  .  .  .  When  I  was  in  Ceylon, 
a  wise  Seeker  confirmed  that  from  the  gospel  which  is  written  in 
Pali.  Certainly,  since  we  know  the  way  to  Freedom,  the  question 
was  unprofitable,  but  —  look,  and  know  illusion,  chela!  These 
are  the  true  hills!  They  are  like  the  hills  by  Suchzen.  Never 
were  such  hills!' 

Above  them,  still  enormously  above  them,  earth  towered  away 
towards  the  snow-line,  where  from  east  to  west  across  hundreds  of 
miles,  ruled  as  with  a  ruler,  the  last  of  the  bold  birches  stopped. 
Above  that,  in  scarps  and  blocks  upheaved,  the  rocks  strove  to 
fight  their  heads  above  the  white  smother.  Above  these  again, 
changeless  since  the  world's  beginning,  but  changing  to  every  mood 
of  sun  and  cloud,  lay  out  the  eternal  snow.  They  could  see  blots 
and  blurs  on  its  face  where  storm  and  wandering  wulli-wa  got  up 
to  dance.  Below  them,  as  they  stood,  the  forest  slid  away  in  a 
sheet  of  blue  green  for  mile  upon  mile;  below  the  forest  was  a  vil- 
lage in  its  sprinkle  of  terraced  fields  and  steep  grazing-grounds; 
below  the  village  they  knew,  though  a  thunderstorm  worried  and 
growled  there  for  the  moment,  a  pitch  of  twelve  or  fifteen  hundred 
feet  gave  to  the  moist  valley  where  the  streams  gather  that  are  the 
mothers  of  young  Sutlej. 

As  usual,  the  lama  had  led  Kim  by  cow-track  and  byroad,  far 
from  the  main  route  along  which  Hurree  Babu,  that  'fearful  man,' 
had  bucketed  three  days  before  through  a  storm  to  which  nine 
Englishmen  out  of  ten  would  have  given  full  right  of  way.  Hurree 
was  no  game  shot,  —  the  snick  of  a  trigger  made  him  change 


290  KIM 

colour,  —  but,  as  he  himself  would  have  said,  he  was  fairly  'effee- 
cient  stalker,'  and  he  had  raked  the  huge  valley  with  a  pair  of 
cheap  binoculars  to  some  purpose.  Moreover,  the  white  of  worn 
canvas  tents  carries  far  against  green.  Hurree  Babu  had  seen  all 

• 

he  wanted  to  see  when  he  sat  on  the  threshing-floor  of  Ziglaur, 
twenty  miles  away  as  the  eagle  flies,  and  forty  by  road  —  that  is 
to  say,  two  small  dots  which  one  day  were  just  below  the  snow-line, 
and  the  next  had  moved  downward  perhaps  six  inches  on  the  hill- 
side. Once  cleaned  out  and  set  to  the  work,  his  fat  bare  legs  could 
cover  a  surprising  amount  of  ground,  and  this  was  the  reason  why, 
while  Kim  and  the  lama  lay  in  a  leaky  hut  at  Ziglaur  till  the  storm 
should  be  overpassed,  an  oily,  wet,  but  always  smiling  Bengali,' 
talking  the  best  of  English  with  the  vilest  of  phrases,  was  ingra- 
tiating himself  with  two  sodden  and  rather  rheumatic  foreigners. 
He  had  arrived,  revolving  many  wild  schemes,  on  the  heels  of  a 
thunderstorm  which  had  split  a  pine  over  against  their  camp,  and 
so  convinced  a  dozen  or  two  forcibly  impressed  baggage-coolies  the 
day  was  inauspicious  for  further  travel  that  with  one  accord  they 
had  thrown  down  their  loads  and  jibbed.  They  were  subjects  of 
a  hill-Rajah  who  farmed  out  their  services,  as  is  the  custom,  for 
his  private  gain;  and,  to  add  to  their  personal  distresses,  the  strange 
Sahibs  had  already  threatened  them  with  rifles.  The  most  of  them 
knew  rifles  and  Sahibs  oLold.  They  were  trackers  and  shikarris  of 
the  Northern  valleys,  keen  after  bear  and  wild  goat;  but  they  had 
never  been  thus  treated  in  their  lives.  So  the  forest  took  them  to 
her  bosom,  and,  for  all  oaths  and  clamour,  refused  to  restore. 
There  was  no  need  to  feign  madness  or  —  the  Babu  had  thought  of 
another  means  of  securing  a  welcome.  He  wrung  out  his  wet 
clothes,  slipped  on  his  patent-leather  shoes,  opened  the  blue  and 
white  umbrella,  and  with  mincing  gait  and  a  heart  beating  against 


KIM  291 

his  tonsils  appeared  as  'agent  for  His  Royal  Highness,  the  Rajah 
of  Rampur,  gentlemen.  What  can  I  do  for  you,  please?' 

The  gentlemen  were  delighted.  One  was  visibly  French,  the 
other  Russian,  but  they  spoke  English  not  much  inferior  to  the 
Babu's.  They  begged  his  kind  offices.  Their  native  servants  had 
gone  sick  at  Leh.  They  had  pushed  on  because  they  were  anxious 
to  bring  the  spoils  of  the  chase  to  Simla  ere  the  skins  grew  moth- 
eaten.  They  bore  a  general  letter  of  introduction  (the  Babu  sa- 
laamed to  it  orientally)  to  all  Government  officials.  No,  they  had 
not  met  any  other  shooting-parties  en  route.  They  did  for  them- 
selves. They  had  plenty  of  supplies.  They  only  wished  to  push 
on  as  soon  as  might  be.  At  this  he  waylaid  a  cowering  hillman 
among  the  trees,  and  after  three  minutes'  talk  and  a  little  silver 
(one  cannot  be  economical  upon  State  service,  though  Hurree's 
heart  bled  at  the  waste)  the  eleven  coolies  and  the  three  hangers-on 
reappeared.  At  least  the  Babu  would  be  a  witness  to  oppression. 

'My  royal  master,  he  will  be  much  annoyed,  but  these  people 
are  onlee  common  people  and  grossly  ignorant.  If  your  honours 
will  kindly  overlook  unfortunate  affair,  I  shall  be  much  pleased. 
In  a  little  while  rain  will  stop  and  we  can  then  proceed.  You  have 
been  shooting,  eh?  That  is  fine  performance!' 

He  skipped  nimbly  from  one  kilta  to  the  next,  making  pretence 
to  adjust  each  conical  basket.  The  Englishman  is  not,  as  a  rule, 
familiar  with  the  Asiatic,  but  he  would  not  strike  across  the  wrist 
a  kindly  Babu  who  had  accidentally  upset  a  kilta  with  a  red  oilskin 
top.  On  the  other  hand,  he  would  not  press  drink  upon  a  Babu 
were  he  never  so  friendly,  nor  would  he  invite  him  to  meat.  The 
strangers  did  all  these  things,  and  asked  many  questions,  —  about 
women  mostly,  —  to  which  Hurree  returned  gay  and  unstudied 
answers.  They  gave  him  a  glass  of  whitish  fluid  like  to  gin,  and 


292  KIM 

then  more,  and  in  a  little  time  his  gravity  departed  from  him.  He 
became  thickly  treasonous,  and  spoke  in  terms  of  sweeping  inde- 
cency of  a  Government  which  had  forced  upon  him  a  white  man's 
education  and  neglected  to  supply  him  with  a  white  man's  salary. 
He  babbled  tales  of  oppression  and  wrong  till  the  tears  ran  down 
his  cheeks  for  the  miseries  of  his  land.  Then  he  staggered  off, 
singing  love-songs  of  Lower  Bengal,  and  collapsed  upon  a  wet  tree- 
trunk.  Never  was  so  unfortunate  a  product  of  English  rule  in 
India  more  unhappily  thrust  upon  an  alien. 

'They  are  all  just  of  that  pattern,'  said  one  sportsman  to  the 
other  in  French.  'When  we  get  into  India  proper  thou  wilt  see. 
I  should  like  to  visit  his  Rajah.  One  might  speak  the  good  word 
there.  It  is  possible  that  he  has  heard  of  us  and  wishes  to  signify 
his  good  will. ' 

'We  have  not  time.  We  must  get  into  Simla  as  soon  as  may  be, ' 
his  companion  replied.  'For  my  own  part,  I  wish  our  reports  had 
been  sent  back  North  from  Hilas,  or  even  Leh.' 

'The  English  post  is  better  and  safer.  Remember  we  are  given 
all  facilities  and  -  -  name  of  God  -  -  they  give  them  to  us  too!  It 
is  unbelievable  stupidity.' 

'It  is  pride-  -pride  that  deserves  and  will  receive  punishment. 
Yes!  To  fight  a  fellow  Continental  in  our  game  is  something. 
There  is  a  risk  attached,  but  these  people  -  -  bah !  It  is  too  easy. ' 

'Pride  -  -  all  pride,  my  friend.' 

'Now  what  the  deuce  is  good  of  Chundernagore  being  so  close 
to  Calcutta  and  all,'  said  Hurree,  snoring  open-mouthed  on  the 
sodden  moss,  'if  I  cannot  understand  their  French.  They  talk  so 
particularly  fast!  It  would  have  been  much  better  to  cut  their 
beastly  throats.' 

When  he  presented  himself  again  he  was  racked  with  a  head- 


KIM  293 

ache  -  -  penitent,  and  volubly  afraid  that  in  his  drunkenness  he 
might  have  been  indiscreet.  He  loved  the  British  Government  — 
it  was  the  source  of  all  prosperity  and  honour,  and  his  master  of 
Rampur  held  the  very  same  opinion.  Upon  this  the  men  began  to 
deride  him  and  to  quote  past  words,  till  step  by  step,  with  depre- 
cating smirks,  oily  grins,  and  leers  of  infinite  cunning,  the  poor  Babu 
was  beaten  out  of  his  defences  and  forced  to  speak  —  truth. 
When  Lurgan  was  told  the  tale  later,  he  mourned  aloud  that  he 
could  not  have  been  in  the  place  of  the  stubborn,  inattentive  coo- 
lies, who  with  grass  mats  over  their  heads  and  the  raindrops  pud- 
dling in  their  footprints,  waited  on  the  weather.  All  the  Sahibs  of 
their  acquaintance  —  rough-clad  men  joyously  returning  year 
after  year  to  their  chosen  gullies  —  had  servants  and  cooks  and 
orderlies,  very  often  hillrnen.  These  Sahibs  travelled  without 
any  retinue.  Therefore  they  were  poor  Sahibs,  and  ignorant,  for 
no  Sahib  in  his  senses  would  follow  a  Bengali's  advice.  But  the 
Bengali,  appearing  from  somewhere,  had  given  them  money,  and 
would  at  least  make  shift  with  their  dialect.  Used  to  compre- 
hensive ill-treatment  from  their  own  colour,  they  suspected  a  trap 
somewhere,  and  stood  by  to  run  if  occasion  offered. 

Then  through  the  new-washed  air,  steaming  with  delicious  earth- 
smells,  the  Babu  led  the  way  down  the  slopes  —  walking  ahead  of 
the  coolies  in  pride,  walking  behind  the  foreigners  in  humility. 
His  thoughts  were  many  and  various.  The  least  of  them  would 
have  interested  his  companions  beyond  words.  But  he  was  an 
agreeable  guide,  always  keen  to  point  out  the  beauties  of  his  royal 
master's  domain.  He  peopled  the  hills  with  anything  they  had  a 
mind  to  slay  —  thar,  ibex,  or  markhor,  and  bears  by  Elisha's  allow- 
ance. He  discoursed  of  botany  and  ethnology  with  unimpeach- 
able inaccuracy,  and  his  store  of  local  legends  -  -  he  had  been  a 


294  K  l  M 

trusted  agent  of  the  State  for  fifteen  years,  remember  —  was  in- 
exhaustible. 

'Decidedly  this  fellow  is  an  original,'  said  the  taller  of  the  two 
foreigners.  'He  is  like  the  nightmare  of  a  Viennese  courier.' 

'He  represents  in  petto  India  in  transition  —  the  monstrous 
hybridism  of  East  and  West,'  the  Russian  replied.  'It  is  we  who 
can  deal  with  Orientals.' 

'He  has  lost  his  own  country  and  has  not  acquired  any  other. 
But  he  has  a  most  complete  hatred  of  his  conquerors.  Listen. 
He  confided  to  me  last  night, '  etc. 

Under  the  striped  umbrella  Hurree  Babu  was  straining  ear  and 
brain  to  follow  the  quick-poured  French,  and  keeping  both  eyes  on 
a  kilta  full  of  maps  and  documents  —  an  extra  large  one  with  a 
double  red  oilskin  cover.  He  did  not  wish  to  steal  anything.  He 
only  desired  to  know  what  to  steal,  and,  incidentally,  how  to  get 
away  when  he  had  stolen  it.  He  thanked  all  the  Gods  of  Hindu- 
stan, and  Herbert  Spencer,  that  there  remained  some  valuables 
to  steal. 

On  the  second  day  the  road  rose  steeply  to  a  grass  spur  above 
the  forest;  and  it  was  here,  about  sunset,  that  they  came  across  an 
aged  lama  —  but  they  called  him  a  bonze  —  sitting  cross-legged 
above  a  mysterious  chart  held  down  by  stones,  which  he  was  ex- 
plaining to  a  young  man,  evidently  a  neophyte,  of  singular,  though 
unwashen,  beauty.  The  striped  umbrella  had  been  sighted  half  a 
march  away,  and  Kim  had  suggested  a  halt  till  it  came  up  to  them. 

'Ha!'  said  Hurree  Babu,  resourceful  as  Puss-in-Boots.  'That 
is  eminent  local  holy  man.  Probably  subject  of  my  royal  master.' 

'What  is  he  doing?     It  is  very  curious.' 

'He  is  expounding  holy  picture  —  all  hand  worked.' 

The  two  men  stood  bare-headed  in  the  wash  of  the  low  after- 


KIM  295 

noon  sunlight  across  the  gold-coloured  grass.  The  sullen  coolies, 
glad  of  the  check,  halted  and  slid  down  their  loads. 

'Look!'  said  the  Frenchman.  'It  is  like  a  picture  for  the  birth 
of  a  religion  —  the  first  teacher  and  the  first  disciple.  Is  he  a 
Buddhist?' 

'Of  some  debased  kind,'  the  other  answered.  'There  are  no 
true  Buddhists  among  the  Hills.  But  look  at  the  folds  of  the 
drapery.  Look  at  his  eyes  —  how  insolent!  Why  does  this  make 
one  feel  that  we  are  so  young  a  people?'  The  speaker  struck 
passionately  at  a  tall  weed.  'We  have  nowhere  left  our  mark  yet. 
Nowhere!  That,  do  you  understand,  is  what  disquiets  me.'  He 
scowled  at  the  placid  face,  and  the  monumental  calm  of  the  pose. 

'Have  patience.  We  shall  make  our  mark  together  —  we  and 
you  young  people.  Meantime,  draw  his  picture. ' 

The  Babu  advanced  loftily;  his  back  out  of  all  keeping  with  his 
deferential  speech,  or  his  wink  towards  Kim. 

'Holy  One,  these  be  Sahibs.  My  medicines  cured  one  of  a  flux, 
and  I  go  into  Simla  to  oversee  his  recovery.  They  wish  to  see  thy 
picture ' 

'To  heal  the  sick  is  always  good.  This  is  the  Wheel  of  Life,' 
said  the  lama,  'the  same  I  showed  thee  in  the  hut  at  Ziglaur  when 
the  rain  fell. ' 

'And  to  hear  thee  expound  it.' 

The  lama's  eyes  lighted  at  the  prospect  of  new  listeners.  'To 
expound  the  Most  Excellent  Way  is  good.  Have  they  any  knowl- 
edge of  Hindi,  such  as  had  the  Fountain  of  Wisdom?' 

'A  little,  maybe.' 

Hereat,  simply  as  a  child  engrossed  with  a  new  game,  the  lama 
threw  back  his  head  and  began  the  full-throated  invocation  of 
the  Doctor  of  Divinity  ere  he  opens  the  full  doctrine.  The  stran- 


296  KIM 

gers  leaned  on  their  alpenstocks  and  listened.  Kim,  squatting 
humbly,  watched  the  low  sunlight  on  their  faces,  and  the  blend 
and  parting  of  their  long  shadows.  They  wore  un-English  leggings 
and  curious  girt-in  belts  that  reminded  him  hazily  of  the  pictures 
in  a  book  at  St.  Xavier's  library:  The  Adventures  of  a  Young  Natu- 
ralist in  Mexico  was  its  name.  Yes,  they  looked  very  like  the  won- 
derful M.  Sumichrast  of  that  tale,  and  very  unlike  the  'highly 
unscrupulous  folk'  of  Hurree  Babu's  imagining.  The  coolies, 
earth-coloured  and  mute,  crouched  reverently  some  twenty  or 
thirty  yards  away,  and  the  Babu,  the  slack  of  his  thin  gear  snap- 
ping like  a  marking-flag  in  the  chill  breeze,  stood  by  with  an  air  of 
happy  proprietorship. 

'These  are  the  men,'  Hurree  whispered,  as  the  ritual  went  on 
and  the  two  whites  followed  the  grass  blade  sweeping  from  Hell  to 
Heaven  and  back  again.  'All  their  books  are  in  the  large  kilta 
with  the  reddish  top,  —  books  and  reports  and  maps,  —  and  I 
have  seen  a  murasla  that  either  Hilas  or  Bunar  have  written. 
They  guard  it  most  carefully.  They  have  sent  nothing  back  from 
Hilds  or  Leh.  That  is  sure.' 

'Who  is  with  them?' 

'Only  the  ^g^r-coolies.  They  have  no  servants.  They  are  so 
close.  They  cook  their  own  food. ' 

'But  what  am  I  to  do?' 

'Wait  and  see.  Only  if  any  chance  comes  to  me  thou  wilt  know 
where  to  seek  for  the  papers.' 

'This  were  better  in  Mahbub  Ali's  hands  than  a  Bengali's,'  said 
Kim  scornfully. 

'There  are  more  ways  of  getting  to  a  sweetheart  than  butting 
down  a  wall. ' 

'  See  here  the  Hell  appointed  for  avarice  and  greed.      Flanked  upon 


KIM  297 

the  one  side  by  desire  and  on  the  other  by  weariness.'  The  lama 
warmed  to  his  work,  and  one  of  the  strangers  sketched  him  in  the 
quick-fading  light. 

4 That  is  enough,'  the  artist  said  brusquely.  'I  cannot  under- 
stand him,  but  I  want  that  picture.  He  is  a  better  artist  than  I. 
Ask  him  if  he  will  sell  it.' 

'He  says  "No,  sar,"'  the  Babu  replied.  The  lama,  of  course, 
would  no  more  have  parted  with  his  chart  to  a  casual  wayfarer 
than  an  archbishop  would  sell  the  holy  vessels  of  a  cathedral.  All 
Tibet  is  full  of  cheap  reproductions  of  the  Wheel;  but  the  lama  was 
an  artist,  as  well  as  a  wealthy  abbot  in  his  own  place. 

'Perhaps  in  three  days,  or  four,  or  ten,  if  I  perceive  that  the 
Sahib  is  a  Seeker  and  of  good  understanding,  I  may  myself  draw 
him  another.  But  this  was  used  for  the  initiation  of  a  novice. 
Tell  him  so,  hakim.9 

'He  wishes  it  now  —  for  money.' 

The  lama  slowly  shook  his  head  and  began  to  fold  up  the  chart. 
The  Russian,  on  his  side,  saw  no  more  than  an  unclean  old  man 
haggling  over  a  dirty  piece  of  paper.  He  drew  out  half  a  handful 
of  rupees,  and  snatched  half-jestingly  at  the  chart,  which  tore  in 
the  lama's  grip.  A  low  murmur  of  horror  went  up  from  the  coolies 
—  some  of  whom  were  Spiti  men,  and,  by  their  lights,  good  Bud- 
dhists. The  lama  rose  at  the  insult;  his  hand  went  to  the  heavy 
iron  pencase  that  is  the  priest's  weapon,  and  the  Babu  danced  in 
agony. 

'Now  you  see  —  you  see  why  I  wanted  witnesses.  They  are 
highly  unscrupulous  people.  Oh  Sar!  Sar!  You  must  not  hit  holy 
man!' 

<  Chela!    He  has  defiled  the  Written  Word !' 

It  was  too  late.     Before  Kim  could  ward  him  off,  the  Russian 


298  KIM 

struck  the  old  man  full  on  the  face.  Next  instant  he  was  rolling 
over  and  over  down  hill  with  Kim  at  his  throat.  The  blow  had 
waked  every  unknown  Irish  devil  in  the  boy's  blood,  and  the  sud- 
den fall  of  his  enemy  did  the  rest.  The  lama  dropped  to  his  knees, 
half-stunned;  the  coolies  under  their  loads  fled  up  the  hill  as  fast 
as  plainsmen  run  across  the  level.  They  had  seen  sacrilege  un- 
speakable, and  it  behoved  them  to  get  away  before  the  Gods  and 
devils  of  the  hills  took  vengeance.  The  Frenchman  ran  towards 
the  lama,  fumbling  at  his  revolver  with  some  notion  of  making 
him  a  hostage  for  his  companion.  A  shower  of  cutting  stones  - 
hillmen  are  very  straight  shots  —  drove  him  away,  and  a  coolie 
from  Ao-chung  snatched  the  lama  into  the  stampede.  All  came 
about  as  swiftly  as  the  sudden  mountain  darkness. 

'They  have  taken  the  baggage  and  all  the  guns,'  yelled  the 
Frenchman,  firing  blindly  into  the  twilight. 

'All  right,  Sar!  All  right!  Don't  shoot.  I  go  to  rescue,'  and 
Hurree,  pounding  down  the  slope,  cast  himself  bodily  upon  the  de- 
lighted and  astonished  Kim,  who  was  banging  his  breathless  foe's 
head  against  a  boulder. 

'Go  back  to  the  coolies,'  whispered  the  Babu  in  his  ear.  'They 
have  the  baggage.  The  papers  are  in  the  kilta  with  the  red  top, 
but  look  through  all.  Take  their  papers,  and  specially  the  murasla 
(King's  letter).  Go.  The  other  man  comes!' 

Kim  tore  up  hill.  A  revolver  bullet  rang  on  a  rock  by  his  side, 
and  he  cowered  partridge-wise. 

'If  you  shoot,'  shouted  Hurree,  'they  will  descend  and  annihi- 
late us.  I  have  rescued  the  gentleman,  Sar.  This  is  par-ti-cularly 
dangerous.' 

'By  Jove!'  Kim  was  thinking  hard  in  English.  'This  is  damn- 
tight  place,  but  /  think  it  is  self-defence. '  He  felt  in  his  bosom  for 


KIM  299 

Mahbub's  gift,  and  uncertainly  —  save  for  a  few  practice  shots  in 
the  Bikaner  desert,  he  had  never  used  the  little  gun  —  pulled 
trigger. 

'What  did  I  say,  Sar!'  The  Babu  seemed  to  be  in  tears.  '  Come 
down  here  and  assist  to  resuscitate.  We  are  all  up  a  tree,  I  tell 
you.' 

The  shots  ceased.  There  was  a  sound  of  stumbling  feet,  and 
Kim  hurried  upward  through  the  gloom,  swearing  like  a  cat  —  or 
a  country-bred. 

'Did  they  wound  thee,  chela?'  called  the  lama  above  him. 

'No.     And  thou?'     He  dived  into  a  clump  of  stunted  firs. 

'Unhurt.  Come  away.  We  go  with  these  folk  to  Shamlegh 
under  the  snow. ' 

'But  not  before  we  have  done  justice,'  a  voice  cried.  'I  have 
got  the  Sahibs'  guns  —  all  four.  Let  us  go  down. ' 

'He  struck  the  Holy  One  —  we  saw  it.  Our  cattle  will  be  barren 
—  our  wives  will  cease  to  bear.  The  snows  will  slide  upon  us  as 
we  go  home  ...  on  top  of  all  other  oppression  too!' 

The  little  fir-clump  filled  with  clamouring  coolies  —  panic- 
stricken,  and  in  their  terror  capable  of  anything.  The  man  from 
Ao-chung  clicked  the  breechbolt  of  his  gun  impatiently,  and  made 
as  to  go  down  hill. 

'  Wait  a  little,  Holy  One.    They  cannot  go  far.    Wait  till  I  return.' 

'It  is  this  person  who  has  suffered  wrong,'  said  the  lama,  his 
hand  over  his  brow. 

'For  that  very  reason,'  was  the  reply. 

'If  this  person  overlooks  it,  your  hands  are  clean.  Moreover, 
ye  acquire  merit  by  obedience.' 

'Wait,  and  we  will  all  go  to  Shamlegh  together,'  the  man 
insisted. 


300  KIM 

For  a  moment,  for  just  so  long  as  it  needs  to  stuff  a  cartridge  into 
a  breech-loader,  the  lama  hesitated.  Then  he  rose  to  his  feet,  and 
laid  a  finger  on  the  man's  shoulder. 

'Hast  thou  heard?  7  say  there  shall  be  no  killing  —  I  who  was 
abbot  of  Suchzen.  Is  it  any  lust  of  thine  to  be  re-born  as  a  rat, 
or  a  snake  under  the  eaves  —  a  worm  in  the  belly  of  the  most  mean 
beast?  Is  it  thy  wish  to ' 

The  man  from  Ao-chung  fell  to  his  knees,  for  the  voice  boomed 
like  a  Tibetan  devil-gong. 

'Ai!  ai!'  cried  the  Spiti  men.  'Do  not  curse  us  —  do  not  curse 
him.  It  was  but  his  zeal,  Holy  One !  .  .  .  Put  down  the  rifle, 
fool!' 

'Anger  on  anger!  Evil  on  evil!  There  will  be  no  killing.  Let 
the  priest-beaters  go  in  bondage  to  their  own  acts.  Just  and  sure 
is  the  Wheel,  swerving  not  a  hair.  They  will  be  born  many  times 
—  in  torment. '  His  head  drooped,  and  he  leaned  heavily  on  Kim's 
shoulder. 

CI  have  come  near  to  great  evil,  chela^  he  whispered  in  that  dead 
hush  under  the  pines.  ''I  was  tempted  to  lose  the  Word;  and 
truly,  in  Tibet  there  would  have  been  a  heavy  and  a  slow  death 
for  them.  .  .  .  He  struck  me  across  the  face  .  .  .  upon 
the  flesh  .  .  .'  He  slid  to  the  ground,  breathing  heavily,  and 
Kim  could  hear  the  over-driven  heart  beat  and  flutter. 

'Have  they  hurt  him  to  the  death?'  cried  the  Ao-chung  man, 
while  the  others  stood  mute. 

Kim  knelt  over  the  body  in  deadly  fear.  'Nay,'  he  cried  pas- 
sionately, 'this  is  only  a  weakness.'  Then  he  remembered  that 
he  was  a  white  man,  with  a  white  man's  camp-fittings  at  his  service. 
'Open  the  kiltas!  The  Sahibs  may  have  a  medicine.' 

'Oho!      Then  I  know  it,'  said  the  Ao-chung  man  with  a  laugh. 


KIM  301 

( Not  for  five  years  was  I  Yankling  Sahib's  shikarri  without  know- 
ing that  medicine.     I  too  have  tasted  it.     Behold!' 

He  drew  from  his  breast  a  bottle  of  cheap  whisky  —  such  as  is 
sold  to  explorers  at  Leh  —  and  cleverly  forced  a  little  between  the 
lama's  teeth. 

'So  I  did  when  Yankling  Sahib  twisted  his  foot  beyond  Astor. 
Aha!  I  have  already  looked  into  their  kiltas  —  but  we  will  make 
fair  division  at  Shamlegh.  Give  him  a  little  more.  It  is  good 
medicine.  Feel !  His  heart  goes  better  now.  Lay  his  head  down 
and  rub  a  little  on  the  chest.  If  he  had  waited  quietly  while  I 
accounted  for  the  Sahibs  this  would  never  have  come.  But  per- 
haps the  Sahibs  may  chase  us  here.  Then  it  would  not  be  wrong 
to  shoot  them  with  their  own  guns,  heh  ? ' 

'One  is  paid,  I  think,  already,'  said  Kim  between  his  teeth.  'I 
kicked  him  in  the  groin  as  we  went  down  hill.  Would  I  had 
killed  him!' 

'It  is  well  to  be  brave  when  one  does  not  live  in  Rampur,'  said 
one  whose  hut  lay  within  a  few  miles  of  the  Rajah's  rickety  palace. 
'  If  we  get  a  bad  name  among  the  Sahibs,  none  will  employ  us  as 
shikarris  any  more.' 

'Oh,  but  these  are  not  Angrezi  Sahibs  —  not  merry-minded  men 
like  Fostum  Sahib  or  Yankling  Sahib.  They  are  foreigners  — • 
they  cannot  speak  Angrezi  as  do  Sahib  logue.' 

Here  the  lama  coughed  and  sat  up,  groping  for  the  rosary. 

'There  shall  be  no  killing,'  he  murmured.  'Just  is  the  Wheel! 
Act  of  evil ' 

'Nay,  Holy  One.  We  are  all  here.'  The  Ao-chung  man  timidly 
patted  his  feet.  'Except  by  thy  order,  no  one  shall  be  slain. 
Rest  awhile.  We  will  make  a  little  camp  here,  and  later,  as  the 
moon  rises,  we  go  to  Shamlegh  under  the  snow.' 


302  KIM 

*  After   a   blow,'  said,  a  Spiti  man  sententiously,  'it  is  best  to 
sleep. ' 

*  There  is,  as  it  were,  a  dizziness  at  the  back  of  my  neck,  and  a 
pinching  in  it.     Let  me  lay  my  head  on  thy  lap,  chela.     I  am  an 
old  man  but  not  free  from  passion.     .     .     .     We  must  think  of 
the  Cause  of  Things.' 

'Give  him  a  blanket.  We  dare  not  light  a  fire  lest  the  Sahibs 
see.' 

*  Better  get  away  to  Shamlegh.    None  will  follow  us  to  Shamlegh.' 
This  was  the  nervous  Rampur  man. 

'I  have  been  Fostum  Sahib's  shikarri,  and  I  am  Yankling  Sahib's 
shikarri.  I  should  have  been  with  Yankling  Sahib  now  but  for 
this  cursed  beegar  (cor see].  Let  two  men  watch  below  with  the 
guns  lest  the  Sahibs  do  more  foolishness.  /  shall  not  leave  this 
Holy  One. ' 

They  sat  down  a  little  apart  from  the  lama,  and,  after  listening 
awhile,  passed  round  a  water-pipe  whose  receiver  was  an  old  Day 
and  Martin  blacking-bottle.  The  glow  of  the  red  charcoal  as  it 
went  from  hand  to  hand  lit  up  the  narrow,  blinking  eyes,  the  high 
Chinese  cheek-bones,  and  the  bull  throats  that  melted  away  into 
the  dark  duffle  folds  round  the  shoulders.  They  looked  like 
kobolds  from  some  magic  mine  —  gnomes  of  the  hills  in  conclave. 
And  while  they  talked,  the  voices  of  the  snow-waters  round  them 
diminished  one  by  one  as  the  night  frost  choked  and  clogged  the 
runnels. 

'How  he  stood  up  against  us,'  said  a  Spiti  man  admiring.  'I 
remember  an  old  ibex,  out  Ladakh  way,  that  Dupont  Sahib  missed 
on  a  shoulder-shot,  seven  seasons  back,  standing  up  in  just  like 
that  skeen.  Dupont  Sahib  was  a  good  shikarri. ' 

'Not  as  good  as  Yankling  Sahib.'    The  Ao-chung  man  took  a 


KIM  303 

pull  at  the  whisky-bottle  and  passed  it  over.     'Now  hear  me - 
unless  any  other  man  thinks  he  knows  more. ' 

The  challenge  was  not  taken  up. 

'We  go  to  Shamlegh  when  the  moon  rises.  There  we  will  fairly 
divide  the  kiltas  between  us.  I  am  content  with  this  new  little 
rifle  and  all  its  cartridges.' 

'Are  the  bears  only  bad  on  thy  holding?'  said  a  mate,  sucking 
at  the  pipe. 

'No;  but  musk-pods  are  worth  six  rupees  apiece  now,  and  thy 
women  can  have  the  canvas  of  the  tents  and  some  of  the  cooking 
gear.  We  will  do  all  that  at  Shamlegh  before  dawn.  Then  we 
all  go  our  ways,  remembering  that  we  have  never  seen  or  taken 
service  with  these  Sahibs,  who  may,  indeed,  say  that  we  have 
stolen  their  baggage. ' 

'That  is  well  for  thee,  but  what  will  our  Rajah  say?' 

'Who  is  to  tell  him?  The  Sahibs  who  cannot  speak  Pahari,  or 
the  Babu  who  for  his  own  ends  gave  us  money?  Will  he  lead  an 
army  against  us?  What  evidence  will  remain?  That  we  do  not 
need  we  shall  throw  on  Shamlegh  midden,  where  no  man  has  yet 
set  foot. ' 

'Who  is  at  Shamlegh  this  summer?'  The  place  was  only  a 
grazing  centre  of  three  or  four  huts. 

'The  woman  of  Shamlegh.  She  has  no  love  for  Sahibs,  as  we 
know.  The  others  can  be  pleased  with  little  presents;  and  there  is 
enough  for  us  all.'  He  patted  the  fat  sides  of  the  nearest  kilta. 

'But  — but ' 

'I  have  said  they  are  not  true  Sahibs.  All  their  skins  and  heads 
were  bought  in  the  bazar  at  Leh.  I  know  the  marks.  I  showed 
them  to  ye  last  March.' 

'True.     They  were   all  bought   skins   and   heads.     Some  had 


3o4  KIM 

even  the  moth  in  them.'  That  was  a  shrewd  argument,  and  the 
Aochung  man  knew  his  fellows.  'If  the  worst  comes  to  the  worst, 
I  shall  tell  Yankling  Sahib,  who  is  a  man  of  a  merry  mind,  and  he 
will  laugh.  We  are  not  doing  any  wrong  to  the  Sahibs  whom  we 
know.  They  are  priest-beaters.  They  frightened  us.  We  fled! 
Who  knows  when  we  dropped  the  baggage?  Do  ye  think  Yank- 
ling  Sahib  will  permit  down-country  police  to  wander  all  over  the 
hills,  disturbing  his  game?  It  is  a  far  cry  from  Simla  to  Chini,  and 
farther  from  Shamlegh  to  Shamlegh  midden. ' 

'  So  be  it,  but  I  carry  the  big  kilta.  The  kilta  with  the  red  top 
that  the  Sahibs  pack  themselves  every  morning.' 

'Thus  is  it  proved,'  said  the  Shamlegh  man  adroitly,  'that  they 
are  Sahibs  of  no  account.  Who  ever  heard  of  Fostum  Sahib,  or 
Yankling  Sahib,  or  even  the  little  Peel  Sahib  that  sits  up  of  nights 
to  shoot  serow  —  I  say,  who  ever  heard  of  these  Sahibs  coming 
into  the  hills  without  a  down-country  cook,  and  a  bearer,  and  — 
and  all  manner  of  well-paid,  high-handed  and  oppressive  folk  in 
their  tail?  How  can  they  make  trouble?  But  what  of  the  kilta?1 

'Nothing,  but  that  it  is  full  of  the  Written  Word  —  books  and 
papers  in  which  they  wrote,  and  strange  instruments,  as  of  worship.' 

'Shamlegh  midden  will  take  them  all.' 

'Umm!  But  how  if  we  insult  the  Sahibs'  Gods  thereby?  I  do 
not  like  to  handle  the  Written  Word  in  that  fashion.  And  their 
brass  idols  are  beyond  my  comprehension.  It  is  no  plunder  for 
simple  hill-folk.' 

'The  old  man  still  sleeps.  Hst!  We  will  ask  his  chela.1  The 
Ao-chung  man  refreshed  himself,  and  swelled  with  pride  of  leader- 
ship. 

'We  have  here,'  he  whispered,  'a  kilta  whose  nature  we  do  not 
know. ' 


KIM  305 

'But  I  do,'  said  Kim  cautiously.  The  lama  drew  breath  in 
natural,  easy  sleep,  and  Kim  had  been  thinking  of  Hurree's  last 
words.  As  a  player  of  the  Great  Game,  he  was  disposed  just  then 
to  reverence  the  Babu.  '  It  is  a  kilta  with  a  red  top  full  of  very 
wonderful  things,  not  to  be  handled  by  fools.' 

'I  said  it;  I  said  it,'  cried  the  bearer  of  that  burden.  'Thanks! 
Then  it  will  betray  us  ? ' 

'  Not  if  it  be  given  to  me.  I  will  draw  out  its  magic.  Otherwise 
it  will  do  great  harm.' 

'A  priest  always  takes  his  share.'  Whisky  was  demoralizing 
the  Ao-chung  man. 

'It  is  no  matter  to  me,'  Kim  answered,  with  the  craft  of  his 
mother  country.  'Share  it  among  you,  and  see  what  comes!' 

'Not  I.  I  was  only  jesting.  Give  the  order.  There  is  more 
than  enough  for  us  all.  We  go  our  way  from  Shamlegh  in  the 
dawn.' 

They  arranged  and  re-arranged  their  artless  little  plans  for 
another  hour,  while  Kim  shivered  with  cold  and  pride.  The 
humour  of  the  situation  tickled  the  Irish  and  the  Oriental  in  his 
youth.  Here  were  the  emissaries  of  the  dread  power  of  the  North, 
very  possibly  as  great  in  their  own  land  as  Mahbub  or  Colonel 
Creighton,  suddenly  smitten  helpless.  One  of  them,  he  privately 
knew,  would  be  lame  for  a  time.  They  had  made  promises  to 
kings.  To-night  they  lay  out  somewhere  below  him,  chartless, 
foodless,  tentless,  gunless  —  except  for  Hurree  Babu,  guideless. 
And  this  collapse  of  their  Great  Game  (Kim  wondered  to  whom 
they  would  report  it),  this  panicky  bolt  into  the  night,  had  come 
about  through  no  craft  of  Hurree's  or  contrivance  of  Kim's,  but 
simply  beautifully  and  inevitably  as  the  capture  of  Mahbub's 
faquir  friends  by  the  zealous  young  policeman  at  Umballa. 


3o6  KIM 

'They  are  there-  -with  nothing;  and,  by  Jove,  it  is  cold!  I 
am  here  with  all  their  things.  Oh,  they  will  be  angry!  I  am 
sorry  for  Hurree  Babu.' 

Kim  might  have  saved  his  pity,  for  though  at  that  moment  the 
Bengali  was  suffering  acutely  in  the  flesh,  his  soul  was  puffed  and 
lofty.  A  mile  down  the  hill,  on  the  edge  of  a  pine  forest,  two  half- 
frozen  men  —  one  powerfully  sick  at  intervals  —  were  varying 
mutual  recriminations  with  the  most  poignant  abuse  of  the  Babu, 
who  seemed  distraught  with  terror.  They  demanded  a  plan  of 
action.  He  explained  that  they  were  very  lucky  to  be  alive;  that 
their  coolies,  if  not  then  stalking  them,  had  passed  beyond  recall; 
that  the  Rajah,  his  master,  was  ninety  miles  away,  and,  so  far  from 
lending  them  money  and  a  retinue  for  the  Simla  journey,  would 
surely  cast  them  into  prison  if  he  heard  that  they  had  hit  a  priest. 
He  enlarged  on  this  sin  and  its  consequences  till  they  bade  him 
change  the  subject.  Their  one  hope,  said  he,  was  unostentatious 
flight  from  village  to  village  till  they  reached  civilization;  and,  for 
the  hundredth  time,  dissolved  in  tears,  he  demanded  of  the  high 
stars  why  the  Sahibs  'had  beaten  holy  man.' 

Ten  steps  would  have  taken  Hurree  into  the  creaking  gloom 
utterly  beyond  their  reach  -  -  to  the  shelter  and  food  of  the  nearest 
village,  where  glib-tongued  doctors  were  scarce.  But  he  preferred 
to  endure  cold,  belly-pinch,  abuse,  and  occasional  blows  in  the 
company  of  his  honoured  employers.  Crouched  against  a  tree- 
trunk,  he  sniffed  dolefully. 

'And  have  you  thought,'  said  the  uninjured  man  hotly,  'what 
sort  of  spectacle  we  shall  present  wandering  through  these  hills 
among  these  aborigines  ? ' 

Hurree  Babu  had  thought  of  little  else  for  some  hours,  but  the 
remark  was  not  to  his  address. 


KIM  307 

'We  cannot  wander!     I  can  hardly  walk,'  groaned  Kim's  victim. 

'Perhaps  the  holy  man  will  be  merciful  in  loving-kindness,  Sar, 
otherwise ' 

'  I  promise  myself  a  peculiar  pleasure  in  emptying  my  revolver 
into  that  young  bonze  when  next  we  meet,'  was  the  unchristian 
answer. 

'Revolvers!  Vengeance!  Bonzes!'  Hurree  crouched  lower. 
The  war  was  breaking  out  afresh.  'Have  you  no  consideration 
for  our  loss?  The  baggage!  The  baggage!'  He  could  hear  the 
speaker  literally  dancing  on  the  grass.  'Everything  we  bore! 
Everything  we  have  secured!  Our  gains!  Eight  months'  work! 
Do  you  know  what  that  means?  Decidedly.  It  is  we  who  can 
deal  with  Orientals.  Oh,  you  have  done  well.' 

They  fell  to  it  in  several  tongues,  and  Hurree  smiled.  Kim  was 
with  the  kiltas.  There  was  no  means  of  communicating  with  the 
boy,  but  he  could  be  trusted.  For  the  rest,  he  could  so  stage- 
manage  the  journey  through  the  hills  that  Hilas,  Bunar,  and  four 
hundred  miles  of  hill-roads  should  tell  the  tale  for  a  generation. 
Men  who  cannot  control  their  own  coolies  are  little  respected  in 
the  Hills,  and  the  Pahari  has  a  very  keen  sense  of  humour. 

'If  I  had  done  it  myself,'  thought  Hurree,  'it  would  not  have 
been  better;  and,  by  Jove,  now  I  think  of  it,  of  course  I  arranged 
it  myself.  How  quick  I  have  been!  Just  when  I  ran  down  hill 
I  thought  it!  Thee  outrage  was  accidental,  but  onlee  me  could 
have  —  worked  it  —  ah  —  for  all  it  was  damn  well  worth.  Con- 
sider the  moral  effect  upon  these  ignorant  peoples!  No  treaties 
—  no  papers  —  no  written  documents  at  all  —  and  me  to  interpret 
for  them.  How  I  shall  laugh  with  the  Colonel !  I  wish  I  had  their 
papers  also,  but  you  cannot  occupy  two  places  in  space  simulta- 
neously. That  is  axiomatic.' 


CHAPTER  XIV 

My  brother  kneels  (so  saith  Kabir) 

To  stone  and  brass  in  heathen-wise, 
But  in  my  brother's  voice  I  hear 

My  own  unanswered  agonies. 
His  God  is  as  his  Fates  assign  — 
His  prayer  is  all  the  world's  —  and  mine. 

KABIR. 

AT  moonrise  the  cautious  coolies  got  under  way.  The  lama, 
refreshed  by  his  sleep  and  the  spirit,  needed  no  more  than  Kim's 
shoulder  to  bear  him  along  —  a  silent,  swift-striding  man.  They 
held  the  shale-sprinkled  grass  for  an  hour,  swept  round  the  shoul- 
der of  an  immortal  cliff,  and  climbed  into  a  new  country  entirely 
blocked  off  .from  all  sight  of  Chini  valley.  A  huge  pasture-ground 
ran  up  fan-shaped  to  the  living  snow.  At  its  base  was  perhaps  half 
an  acre  of  flat  land,  on  which  stood  a  few  soil  and  timber  huts. 
Behind  them  —  for,  hill-fashion,  they  were  perched  on  the  edge 
of  all  things  —  the  ground  fell  sheer  two  thousand  feet  to  Sham- 
legh  midden,  where  never  yet  man  has  set  foot. 

The  men  made  no  motion  to  divide  the  plunder  till  they  had 
seen  the  lama  bedded  down  in  the  best  room  of  the  place,  with  Kim 
shampooing  his  feet,  Mohammedan  fashion. 

4  We  will  send  food,'  said  the  Ao-chung  man,  'and  the  red-topped 
kilta.  By  dawn  there  will  be  none  to  give  evidence,  one  way  or  the 
other.  If  anything  is  not  needed  in  the  kilta  —  see  here ! ' 

He  pointed  through  the  window  —  opening  into  space  that  was 

308 


AM  THE  WOMAN  OF  SHAMLEGH 


KIM  309 

filled  with  moonlight  reflected  from  the  snow  —  and  threw  out  an 
empty  whisky-bottle. 

'No  need  to  listen  for  the  fall:  this  is  the  world's  end,'  he  said 
and  swung  off.  The  lama  looked  forth,  a  hand  on  either  sill,  with 
eyes  that  shone  like  yellow  opals.  From  the  enormous  pit  before 
him  white  peaks  lifted  themselves  yearning  to  the  moonlight.  The 
rest  was  as  the  darkness  of  interstellar  space. 

'Here,'  he  said  slowly,  'are  indeed  my  hills.  Thus  should  a 
man  abide,  perched  above  the  world,  separated  from  delights,  con- 
sidering vast  matters.' 

'Yes;  if  he  has  a  chela  to  prepare  tea  for  him,  and  to  fold  a  blan- 
ket for  his  head,  and  to  chase  out  calving  cows.' 

A  smoky  lamp  burned  in  a  niche,  but  the  full  moonlight  beat  it 
down;  and  by  the  mixed  light,  stooping  above  the  food-bag  and 
cups,  Kim  moved  like  a  tall  ghost. 

'Ai!  But  now  I  have  let  the  blood  cool  my  head  still  beats  and 
drums,  and  there  is  a  cord  round  the  back  of  my  neck.' 

'  No  wonder.     It  was  a  strong  blow.     May  he  who  dealt  it ' 

'But  for  my  own  passions  there  would  have  been  no  evil.' 

'What  evil?  Thou  hast  saved  the  Sahibs  from  death  they  de- 
served a  hundred  times.' 

'The  lesson  is  not  well  learnt,  chela.9  The  lama  came  to  rest  on 
a  folded  blanket,  as  Kim  went  forward  with  his  evening  routine. 
'The  blow  was  but  a  shadow  upon  a  shadow.  Evil  in  itself  —  my 
legs  weary  apace  these  latter  days !  —  it  met  evil  in  me  —  anger, 
rage,  and  a  lust  to  return  evil.  These  wrought  in  my  blood,  woke 
tumult  in  my  stomach,  and  dazzled  my  ears.'  Here  he  drank 
scalding  block  tea  ceremonially,  taking  the  hot  cup  from  Kim's 
hand.  'Had  I  been  passionless,  the  evil  blow  would  have  done 
only  bodily  evil  —  a  scar,  or  a  bruise  —  which  is  illusion.  But 


3io  KIM 

my  mind  was  not  abstracted.  Rushed  in  straightway  a  lust  to  let 
the  Spiti  men  kill.  In  fighting  that  lust,  my  soul  was  torn  and 
wrenched  beyond  a  thousand  blows.  Not  till  I  had  repeated  the 
Blessings  (he  meant  the  Buddhist  Beatitudes)  did  I  achieve  calm. 
But  the  evil  planted  in  me  by  that  moment's  carelessness  works 
out  to  its  end.  Just  is  the  Wheel,  swerving  not  a  hair!  Learn 
the  lesson,  chela.9 

'It  is  too  high  for  me,'  Kim  muttered.  'I  am  still  all  shaken. 
I  am  glad  I  hurt  the  man.' 

'I  felt  that  sleeping  upon  thy  knees  —  in  the  wood  below.  It 
disquieted  me  -  -  my  dreams  —  the  evil  in  thy  soul  working 
through  to  mine.  Yet  on  the  other  hand'  -  he  loosed  his  rosary 
- '  I  have  acquired  merit  by  saving  two  lives  —  the  lives  of  those 
that  wronged  me.  Now  I  must  see  into  the  Cause  of  Things. 
The  boat  of  my  soul  staggers.' 

'  Sleep,  and  be  strong.     That  is  wisest.' 

'  I  meditate.     There  is  need  greater  than  thou  knowest.' 

Till  the  dawn,  hour  after  hour,  as  the  moonlight  paled  on  the 
high  peaks,  and  that  which  had  been  belted  blackness  on  the  sides 
of  the  far  hills  showed  as  tender  green  forest,  the  lama  stared  fixedly 
at  the  wall.  From  time  to  time  he  groaned.  Outside  the  barred 
door,  where  discomfited  kine  came  to  ask  for  their  old  stable, 
Shamlegh  and  the  coolies  gave  itself  up  to  plunder  and  riotous 
living.  The  Ao-chung  man  was  their  leader,  and  once  they  had 
opened  the  Sahibs'  tinned  foods  and  found  that  they  were  very 
good  they  dare  not  turn  back.  Shamlegh  kitchen-midden  took 
the  dunnage. 

When  Kim,  after  a  night  of  bad  dreams,  stole  forth  to  brush  his 
teeth  in  the  morning  chill,  a  fair-coloured  woman  with  turquoise- 
studded  headgear  drew  him  aside. 


KIM  311 

'The  others  have  gone.  They  left  thee  this  kilta  as  the  promise 
was.  I  do  not  love  Sahibs,  but  thou  wilt  make  us  a  charm  in  re- 
turn for  it.  We  do  not  wish  little  Shamlegh  to  get  a  bad  name  on 
account  of  the  — accident.  I  am  the  woman  of  Shamlegh.'  She 
looked  him  over  with  bold,  bright  eyes,  unlike  the  usual  furtive 
glance  of  hill-women. 

*  Assuredly.     But  it  must  be  done  in  secret.' 

She  raised  the  heavy  kilta  like  a  toy  and  slung  it  into  her  own 
hut. 

'Out  and  bar  the  door!  Let  none  come  near  till  it  is  fin- 
ished.' 

'But  afterward  —  we  may  talk?' 

Kim  tilted  the  kilta  on  the  floor  —  a  cascade  of  survey  instru- 
ments, books,  diaries,  letters,  maps,  and  queerly  scented  native 
correspondence.  At  the  very  bottom  was  an  embroidered  bag 
covering  a  sealed,  gilded,  and  illuminated  document  such  as  one 
king  sends  to  another.  Kim  caught  his  breath  with  delight,  and 
reviewed  the  situation  from  a  Sahib's  point  of  view. 

'The  books  I  do  not  want.  Besides,  they  are  logarithms  — 
survey,  I  suppose.'  He  laid  them  aside.  'The  letters  I  do  not 
understand,  but  Colonel  Creighton  will.  They  must  all  be  kept. 
The  maps  —  they  draw  better  maps  than  me  —  of  course.  All 
the  native  letters  —  oho!  —  and  particularly  the  murasla.'  He 
sniffed  the  embroidered  bag.  'That  must  be  from  Hilds  or  Bunar, 
and  Hurree  Babu  spoke  truth.  By  Jove!  It  is  a  fine  haul.  I 
wish  Hurree  could  know.  .  .  .  The  rest  must  go  out  of  the 
window.  He  fingered  a  superb  prismatic  compass  and  the  shiny 
top  of  a  theodolite.  But  after  all,  a  Sahib  cannot  very  well  steal, 
and  the  things  might  be  inconvenient  evidence  later.  He  sorted 
out  every  scrap  of  manuscript,  every  map,  and  the  native  letters. 


3i2  KIM 

They  made  one  softish  slab.  The  three  locked  ferril-backed  books, 
with  five  worn  pocket-books,  he  put  aside. 

'The  letters  and  the  murasla  I  must  carry  inside  my  coat  and 
under  my  belt,  and  the  written  books  I  must  put  into  the  food-bag. 
It  will  be  very  heavy.  No.  I  do  not  think  there  is  anything 
more.  If  there  is,  the  coolies  have  thrown  it  down  the  khud,  so 
thatt  is  all  right.  Now  you  go  too.'  He  repacked  the  kilta  with  all 
he  meant  to  lose,  and  hove  it  up  onto  the  window-sill.  A  thousand 
feet  below  lay  a  long,  lazy,  round-shouldered  bank  of  mist,  as  yet 
untouched  by  the  morning  sun.  A  thousand  feet  below  that  was 
an  hundred-years-old  pine  forest.  He  could  see  the  green  tops 
looking  like  a  bed  of  moss  when  a  wind  eddy  thinned  the  cloud. 

'No!     I  don't  think  any  one  will  go  after  you!' 

The  wheeling  basket  vomited  its  contents  as  it  dropped.  The 
theodolite  hit  a  jutting  cliff-ledge  and  exploded  like  a  shell;  the 
books,  inkstands,  paint-boxes,  compasses,  and  rulers  showed  for  a 
few  seconds  like  a  swarm  of  bees.  Then  they  vanished;  and, 
though  Kim,  hanging  half  out  of  window,  strained  his  young  ears, 
never  a  sound  came  up  from  the  gulf. 

'Five  hundred  —  a  thousand  rupees  could  not  buy  them,'  he 
thought  sorrowfully.  'It  was  verree  wasteful,  but  I  have  all  their 
other  stuff  —  everything  they  did  —  I  hope.  Now  how  the  deuce 
am  I  to  tell  Hurree  Babu,  and  whatt  the  deuce  am  I  to  do?  And 
my  old  man  is  sick.  I  must  tie  up  the  letters  in  oilcloth.  That  is 
something  to  do  first  —  else  they  will  get  all  sweated.  .  .  . 
And  I  am  all  alone!'  He  bound  them  into  a  neat  packet,  swedging 
down  the  stiff,  sticky  oilcoth  at  the  corners,  for  his  roving  life  had 
made  him  as  methodical  as  an  old  shikarri  in  matters  of  the  road. 
Then  with  double  care  he  packed  away  the  books  at  the  bottom 
of  the  food-bag. 


KIM  313 

The  woman  rapped  at  the  door. 

'But  thou  hast  made  no  charm,'  she  said,  looking  about. 

'There  is  no  need.'  Kim  had  completely  overlooked  the  neces- 
sity for  a  little  patter-talk.  The  woman  laughed  at  his  confusion 
irreverently. 

'None  —  for  thee.  Thou  canst  cast  a  spell  by  the  mere  winking 
of  an  eye.  But  think  of  us  poor  people  when  thou  art  gone  ?  They 
were  all  too  drunk  last  night  to  hear  a  woman.  Thou  art  not 
drunk?' 

'I  am  a  priest.'  Kim  had  recovered  himself,  and,  the  woman 
being  aught  but  unlovely,  thought  best  to  stand  on  his  office. 

'I  warned  them  that  the  Sahibs  will  be  angry  and  will  make  an 
inquisition  and  a  report  to  the  Rajah.  There  is  also  the  Babu 
with  them.  Clerks  have  long  tongues.' 

'Is  that  all  thy  trouble?'  The  plan  rose  fully  formed  in  Kim's 
mind,  and  he  smiled  ravishingly. 

'Not  all,'  quoth  the  woman,  putting  out  a  hard  brown  hand  all 
covered  with  turquoises  set  in  silver. 

'I  can  finish  that  in  a  breath,'  he  went  on  quickly.  'The  Babu 
is  the  very  hakim  (thou  hast  heard  of  him?)  who  was  wandering 
among  the  hills  by  Ziglaur.  I  know  him.' 

'He  will  tell  for  the  sake  of  a  reward.  Sahibs  cannot  distinguish 
one  hillman  from  another,  but  Babus  have  eyes  for  men  —  and 
women.' 

'  Carry  a  word  to  him  from  me.' 

'There  is  nothing  I  would  not  do  for  thee.' 

He  accepted  the  compliment  calmly,  as  men  must  in  lands  where 
women  make  the  love,  tore  a  leaf  from  a  note-book,  and  with  a 
patent  indelible  pencil  wrote  in  gross  Shikast  —  the  script  that 
bad  little  boys  use  when  they  write  dirt  on  walls:  'I  have  every- 


3i4  KIM 

thing  that  they  have  written:  their  pictures  of  the  country,  and 
many  letters.  Especially  the  murasla.  Tell  me  what  to  do.  I 
am  at  Shamlegh  under  the  snow.  The  old  man  is  sick.' 

'Take  this  to  him.  It  will  altogether  shut  his  mouth.  He  cannot 
have  gone  far.' 

'Indeed  no.  They  are  still  in  the  forest  across  the  spur.  Our 
children  went  to  watch  them  when  the  light  came,  and  have  cried 
the  news  as  they  moved.' 

Kim  looked  his  astonishment;  but  from  the  edge  of  the  sheep 
pasture  floated  a  shrill,  kite-like  trill.  A  child  tending  cattle  had 
picked  it  up  from  a  brother  or  sister  on  the  far  side  of  the  slope  that 
commanded  Chini  valley. 

'My  husbands  are  also  out  there  gathering  wood.'  She  drew  a 
handful  of  walnuts  from  her  bosom,  split  one  neatly,  and  began  to 
eat.  Kim  affected  blank  ignorance. 

'Dost  thou  not  know  the  meaning  of  the  walnut  —  priest? '  she 
said  coyly,  and  handed  him  the  half-shells. 

'Well  thought  of.'  He  slipped  the  piece  of  paper  between  them 
quickly.  'Hast  thou  a  little  wax  to  close  them  on  this ?' 

The  woman  sighed  aloud,  and  Kim  relented. 

'There  is  no  payment  till  service  has  been  rendered.  Carry  this 
to  the  Babu,  and  say  it  was  sent  by  the  Son  of  the  Charm.' 

'Ai!     Truly!     Truly!     By  a  magician  —  who  is  like  a  Sahib.' 

'Nay.     Son  of  the  Charm:  and  ask  if  there  be  any  answer.' 

'But  if  he  offer  a  rudeness?     I  —  I  am  afraid.' 

Kim  laughed.  'He  is,  I  make  no  doubt,  very  cold  and  very 
hungry.  The  hills  make  cold  bed-fellows.  Hai,  my '  —  it  was  on 
the  tip  of  his  tongue  to  say  Mother,  but  he  turned  it  to  Sister  — 
'thou  art  a  wise  and  witty  woman.  By  this  time  all  the  villages 
know  what  has  befallen  the  Sahibs  —  eh?' 


KIM  315 

'True.  News  was  at  Ziglaur  by  midnight,  and  by  to-morrow 
should  be  at  Kotgarh.  The  villages  are  both  afraid  and  angry.' 

'No  need.  Tell  the  villages  to  feed  the  Sahibs  and  pass  them  on, 
in  peace.  We  must  get  them  quietly  away  from  our  valleys.  To 
steal  is  one  thing  —  to  kill  another.  The  Babu  will  understand, 
and  there  will  be  no  after-complaint.  Be  swift.  I  must  tend  my 
master  when  he  wakes.' 

'So  be  it.  After  service  —  thou  hast  said?  —  comes  the  reward. 
I  am  the  woman  of  Shamlegh,  and  I  hold  from  the  Rajah.  I  am  no 
common  bearer  of  babes.  Shamlegh  is  thine:  hoof  and  horn  and 
hide,  milk  and  butter.  Take  or  leave.' 

She  turned  resolutely  up  hill,  her  silver  necklaces  clicking  on  her 
broad  breast,  to  meet  the  morning  sun  fifteen  hundred  feet  above 
them.  This  time  Kim  thought  in  the  vernacular  as  he  waxed 
down  the  oilskin  edges  of  the  packets. 

'How  can  a  man  follow  the  Way  or  the  Great  Game  when  he  is 
eternally  pestered  by  women?  There  was  that  girl  at  Akrola  by 
the  Ford;  and  there  was  the  scullion's  wife  behind  the  dovecot  — 
not  counting  the  others  —  and  now  comes  this  one !  When  I  was 
a  child  it  was  well  enough,  but  now  I  am  a  man  and  they  will  not 
regard  me  as  a  man.  Walnuts  indeed!  Ho!  ho!  It  is  almonds 
in  the  plains!' 

He  went  outjio  levy  on  the  village  —  not  with  a  begging-bowl, 
which  might  do  for  down-country,  but  in  the  manner  of  a  prince. 
Shamlegh's  summer  population  is  only  three  families  —  four 
women  and  eight  or  nine  men.  They  were  all  full  of  tinned  meats 
—  and  mixed  drinks,  from  ammoniated  quinine  to  white  vodka; 
for  they  had  taken  their  full  share  in  the  overnight  loot.  Th^  neat 
Continental  tents  had  been  cut  up  and  shared  long  ago,  and  there 
were  patent  aluminium  saucepans  abroad. 


316  KIM 

But  they  considered  the  lama's  presence  a  perfect  safeguard 
against  all  consequences,  and  impenitently  brought  Kim  of  their 
best  —  even  to  a  drink  of  chang  —  the  barley  beer  that  comes  from 
Ladakh-way.  Then  they  thawed  out  in  the  sun,  and  sat  with  their 
legs  hanging  over  infinite  abysses,  chattering,  laughing  and  smoking. 
They  judged  India  and  its  Government  solely  from  their  experi- 
ence of  wandering  Sahibs  who  had  employed  them  or  their  friends 
as  shikarris.  Kim  heard  tales  of  shots  missed  upon  ibex,  serow,  or 
markhor,  by  Sahibs  twenty  years  in  their  graves  —  every  detail 
lighted  from  behind  like  twigs  on  tree-tops  seen  against  lightning. 
They  told  him  of  their  little  diseases,  and,  more  important,  the 
diseases  of  their  tiny,  sure-footed  cattle;  of  trips  as  far  as  Kot- 
garh,  where  the  strange  missionaries  live,  and  beyond  even  to 
marvellous  Simla,  where  the  streets  are  paved  with  silver,  and  any 
one,  look  you,  can  get  service  with  the  Sahibs,  who  ride  about  in 
two-wheeled  carts  and  spend  money  with  a  spade.  Presently,  grave 
and  aloof,  walking  very  heavily,  the  lama  joined  himself  to  the 
chatter  under  the  eaves,  and  they  gave  him  great  room.  The  thin 
air  refreshed  him,  and  he  sat  on  the  edge  of  precipices  with  the 
best  of  them,  and,  when  talk  languished,  flung  pebbles  into  the 
void.  Thirty  miles  away,  as  the  eagle  flies,  lay  the  next  range, 
seamed  and  channelled  and  pitted  with  little  patches  of  brush  — 
forests,  each  of  a  day's  long  march.  Behind  the  village,  Shamlegh 
hill  itself  cut  off  all  view  to  southward.  It  was  like  sitting  in  a 
swallow's  nest  under  the  eaves  of  the  roof  of  the  world. 

From  time  to  time  the  lama  stretched  out  his  hand,  and  with  a 
little  low-voiced  prompting  would  point  out  the  road  to  Spiti  and 
north  across  the  Parungla. 

1  Beyond,  where  the  hills  lie  thickest,  lies  De-ch'en'  (he  meant 
Hanle),  'the  great  Monastery.  S'tag-stan-ras-ch'en  built  it,  and 


KIM  317 

of  him  there  runs  this  tale.'  Whereupon  he  told  it:  a  fantastic 
piled  narrative  of  bewitchment  and  miracles  that  set  Shamlegh 
a-gasping.  Turning  west  a  little,  he  speered  for  the  green  hills  of 
Kulu,  and  sought  Kailung  under  the  glaciers.  'For  thither  came  I 
in  the  old,  old  days.  From  Leh  I  came,  over  the  Bararlachi.' 

'Yes,  yes;  we  know  it,'  said  the  far-faring  people  of  Shamlegh. 

'And  I  slept  two  nights  with  the  priests  of  Kailung.  These  are 
the  hills  of  my  delight!  Shadows  blessed  above  all  other  shadows! 
There  my  eyes  opened  on  this  world;  there  my  eyes  were  opened  to 
this  world;  there  I  found  Enlightenment;  and  there  I  girt  my  loins 
for  my  Search.  Out  of  the  hills  I  came  —  the  high  hills  and  the 
strong  winds.  Oh,  just  is  the  Wheel!'  He  blessed  them  in  de- 
tail —  the  great  glaciers,  the  naked  rocks, the  piled  moraines  and 
tumbled  shale;  dry  upland,  hidden  salt-lake,  age-old  timber  and 
fruitful  water-shot  valley  one  after  the  other,  as  a  dying  man  blesses 
his  folk,  and  Kim  marvelled  at  his  passion. 

'Yes  —  yes.  There  is  no  place  like  our  hills,'  said  the  people 
of  Shamlegh.  And  they  fell  to  wondering  how  a  man  could  live 
in  the  hot  terrible  plains  where  the  cattle  run  as  big  as  elephants, 
unfit  to  plough  on  a  hillside;  where  village  touches  village,  they 
had  heard,  for  a  hundred  miles;  where  folk  went  about  stealing 
in  gangs,  and  what  the  robbers  spared  the  police  carried  utterly 
away. 

So  the  long  forenoon  wore  through,  and  at  the  end  of  it  Kim's 
messenger  dropped  from  the  steep  pasture  as  unbreathed  as  when 
she  had  set  out. 

'  I  sent  a  word  to  the  hakim, '  Kim  explained,  as  she  made  rev- 
erence. 

'He  joined  himself  to  the  idolaters?  Nay,  I  remember  he  did  a 
healing  upon  one  of  them.  He  has  acquired  merit,  though  the 


3i8  KIM 

healed  employed  his  strength  for  evil.  Just  is  the  Wheel !  What 
of  the  hakim?' 

(I  feared  that  thou  hadst  been  bruised  and  —  and  I  knew  he  was 
wise.,'  Kim  took  the  waxed  walnut-shell  and  read  in  English  on 
the  back  of  his  note:  '  Your  favour  received.  Cannot  get  away  from 
present  company  at  present,  but  shall  take  them  into  Simla.  After 
which,  hope  to  rejoin  you.  Inexpedient  to  follow  angry  gentlemen. 
Return  by  same  road  you  came,  and  will  overtake.  Highly  gratified 
about  correspondence  due  to  my  forethought?  'He  says,  Holy  One, 
that  he  will  escape  from  the  idolaters,  and  will  return  to  us.  Shall 
we  wait  a  while  at  Shamlegh,  then?' 

The  lama  looked  long  and  lovingly  upon  the  hills  and  shook  his 
head. 

'That  may  not  be,  chela.  From  my  bones  outward  I  do  desire 
it,  but  it  is  forbidden.  I  have  seen  the  Cause  of  Things/ 

'Why?  when  hills  gave  thee  back  thy  strength  day  by  day. 
Remember  we  were  weak  and  fainting  down  below  there  in  the 
Doon.' 

'I  became  strong  to  do  evil  and  to  forget  —  a  brawler  and  a 
swashbuckler  upon  the  hillsides  was  I.'  Kim  bit  back  a  smile. 
'Just  and  perfect  is  .the  Wheel,  swerving  not  a  hair.  When  I  was 
a  man  —  a  long  time  ago  —  I  did  pilgrimage  to  Guru  Ch'wan  a- 
mong  the  poplars'  (he  pointed  Bhotanwards),  'where  they  keep 
the  Sacred  Horse.' 

'Quiet,  be  quiet!'  said  Shamlegh,  all  arow.  'He  speaks  of 
Jamlesi-nisi-Kor,  the  Horse  That  Can  Go  Round  The  World  in  a 
Day.' 

'I  speak  to  my  chela  only,'  said  the  lama,  in  gentle  reproof,  and 
they  scattered  like  frost  on  south  eaves  of  a  morning.  'I  did  not 
seek  truth  in  those  days,  but  the  talk  of  doctrine.  All  illusion! 


KIM  319 

I  drank  the  beer  and  ate  the  bread  of  Guru  Ch'wan.  Next  day 
one  said:  "We  go  out  to  fight  Sangor  Gutok  down  the  valley  to 
discover  (mark  again  how  lust  is  tied  to  anger!)  which  abbot  shall 
bear  rule  in  the  valley,  and  take  the  profit  of  the  prayers  they 
print  at  Sangor  Gutok."  I  went,  and  we  fought  all  day.' 

1  But  how,  Holy  One?' 

'With  the  long  pencases  as  I  could  have  shown  —  I  say,  we 
fought  under  the  poplars,  both  abbots  and  all  the  monks,  and  one 
laid  open  my  forehead  to  the  bone.  See!'  He  tilted  back  his 
cap  and  showed  a  puckered  silvery  scar.  'Just  and  perfect  is  the 
Wheel!  Yesterday  the  scar  itched,  and  after  fifty  years  I  recalled 
how  it  was  dealt  and  the  face  of  him  who  dealt  it,  dwelling  a  little 
in  illusion.  Followed  that  which  thou  didst  see  —  strife  and 
stupidity.  Just  is  the  Wheel!  The  idolater's  blow  fell  upon  the 
scar.  Then  I  was  shaken  in  my  soul:  my  soul  was  darkened,  and 
the  boat  of  my  soul  rocked  upon  the  waters  of  illusion.  Not  till 
I  came  to  Shamlegh  could  I  meditate  upon  the  Cause  of  Things, 
or  trace  the  running  grass  roots  of  Evil.  I  have  striven  all  the 
long  night.' 

'But  Holy  One,  thou  art  innocent  of  all  evil.  May  I  be  thy 
sacrifice!' 

Kim  was  genuinely  distressed  at  the  old  man's  sorrow,  and  Mah- 
bub  Ali's  phrase  slipped  out  unawares. 

'In  the  dawn,'  he  went  on  more  gravely,  ready  rosary  clicking  be- 
tween the  slow  sentences,  'came  Enlightenment.  It  is  here.  .  . 
I  am  an  old  man  .  .  .  hill-bred,  hill-fed,  never  to  sit  down 
among  my  hills.  Three  years  I  travelled  through  Hind,  but  —  can 
earth  be  stronger  than  Mother  Earth?  My  stupid  body  yearned 
to  the  hills  and  the  snow  of  the  hills,  down  below  there.  I  said, 
and  it  is  true,  my  Search  is  sure.  So,  at  the  Kulu  woman's  house 


320  KIM 

I  turned  hillward,  over-persuaded  by  myself.  There  is  no  blame 
on  the  hakim.  He  —  following  desire  —  foretold  that  the  hills 
would  make  me  strong.  They  strengthened  me  to  do  evil,  to 
forget  my  Search.  I  delighted  in  life  and  the  lust  of  life.  I  de- 
sired strong  slopes  to  climb.  I  cast  about  to  find  them.  I  meas- 
ured the  strength  of  my  body,  which  is  evil,  against  the  high  hills. 
I  made  a  mock  of  thee  when  thy  breath  came  short  under  Jamno- 
tri.  I  jested  when  thou  wouldst  not  face  the  snow  of  the  pass.' 

'  But  what  harm  ?  I  was  afraid.  It  was  just.  I  am  not  a  hill- 
man,  and  I  loved  thee  for  thy  strength.' 

'More  than  once  I  remember,'  he  rested  his  cheek  dolefully  on 
his  hand,  'I  sought  thy  praise  and  the  hakim1  s  for  the  mere  strength 
of  my  legs.  Thus  evil  followed  evil  till  the  cup  was  full.  Just 
is  the  Wheel!  All  Hind  for  three  years  did  me  all  honour.  From 
the  Fountain  of  Wisdom  in  the  Wonder  House  to'  —  he  smiled  — 
'a  little  child  playing  by  a  big  gun  —  the  world  prepared  my  road. 
Why?' 

1  Because  we  loved  thee.  It  is  only  the  fever  of  the  blow.  I 
myself  am  still  sick  and  shaken.' 

'No.  It  was  because  I  was  upon  the  Way  —  turned  as  are 
Si-nen  (cymbals)  to  the  purpose  of  the  Law.  I  departed  from  that 
ordinance.  The  tune  was  broken.  Followed  the  punishment. 
In  my  own  hills,  on  the  edge  of  my  own  country,  in  the  very  place 
of  my  evil  desire,  comes  the  buffet  —  here!'  He  touched  his  brow. 
'As  a  novice  is  beaten  when  he  misplaces  the  cups,  so  am  I  beaten, 
who  was  abbot  of  Suchzen.  No  word,  look  you,  but  a  blow,  chela.9 

'But  the  Sahib  did  not  know,  Holy  One?' 

'We  were  well  matched.  Ignorance  and  Lust  met  Ignorance 
and  Lust  upon  the  road,  and  they  begat  Anger.  The  blow  was  a 
sign  to  me,  who  am  no  better  than  a  strayed  yak,  that  my  place  is 


KIM  321 

not  here.  Who  can  read  the  Cause  of  an  act  is  half-way  to  Free- 
dom! "Back  to  the  path"  says  the  Blow.  The  hills  are  not  for 
thee.  Thou  canst  not  choose  Freedom  and  go  in  Bondage  to  the 
delight  of  life.' 

'If  we  had  never  met  that  thrice-cursed  Russian!' 

'Our  Lord  Himself  cannot  make  the  Wheel  swing  backward. 
And  for  my  merit  that  I  had  acquired  I  gain  yet  another  sign.' 
He  put  his  hand  in  his  bosom,  and  drew  forth  the  Wheel  of  Life. 
'Look!  I  considered  this  after  I  had  meditated.  There  remains 
untorn  by  the  idolater  no  more  than  the  breadth  of  my  finger-nail.' 

'I  see.' 

'So  much,  then,  is  the  span  of  my  life  in  this  body.  I  have 
served  the  Wheel  all  my  days.  Now  the  Wheel  serves  me.  But 
for  the  merit  I  have  acquired  in  guiding  thee  upon  the  Way,  there 
would  have  been  added  to  me  yet  another  life  ere  I  had  found  my 
River.  Is  it  plain,  chela?9 

Kim  stared  at  the  brutally  disfigured  chart.  From  left  to  right 
diagonally  the  rent  ran  —  from  the  Eleventh  House  where  desire 
gives  birth  to  the  child  (as  it  is  drawn  by  Buddhists)  —  across  the 
human  and  animal  worlds,  to  the  Fifth  House  —  the  empty  house 
of  the  senses.  The  logic  was  unanswerable. 

'Before  our  Lord  won  Enlightenment,'  the  lama  folded  all  away 
with  reverence,  'He  was  tempted.  I  too  have  been  tempted,  but 
it  is  finished.  The  Arrow  fell  in  the  Plains  —  not  in  the  Hills. 
Therefore,  what  do  we  here?' 

'  Shall  we  at  least  wait  for  the  hakim?9 

'I  know  how  long  I  live  in  this  body.     What  can  a  hakim  do?' 

'But  thou  art  all  sick  and  shaken.     Thou  canst  not  walk.' 

'How  can  I  be  sick  if  I  see  Freedom?'  He  rose  unsteadily  to  his 
feet. 


322  KIM 

'Then  I  must  get  food  from  the  village.  Oh,  the  weary  road!' 
Kim  felt  that  he  too  needed  rest. 

'That  is  lawful.  Let  us  eat  and  go.  The  Arrow  fell  in  Plains 
.  .  .  but  I  yielded  to  desire.  Make  ready,  chela? 

Kim  turned  to  the  woman  with  the  turquoise  headgear  who  had 
been  idly  pitching  pebbles  over  the  cliff.  She  smiled  very  kindly. 

'I  found  him  like  a  strayed  buffalo  in  a  rice-field  —  the  Babu; 
snorting  and  sneezing  with  cold.  He  was  so  hungry  that  he  forgot 
his  dignity  and  gave  me  sweet  words.  The  Sahibs  have  nothing.' 
She  flung  out  an  empty  palm.  'One  is  very  sick  —  about  the 
stomach.  Thy  work?' 

Kim  nodded  with  a  bright  eye. 

'I  spoke  to  the  Bengali  first  —  and  to  the  people  of  a  near-by 
village  after.  The  Sahibs  will  be  given  food  as  they  need  it  — 
nor  will  the  people  ask  money.  The  plunder  is  already  distributed. 
The  Babu  makes  lying  speeches  to  the  Sahibs.  Why  does  he  not 
leave  them?' 

'Out  of  the  greatness  of  his  heart.' 

'Was  never  a  Bengali  yet  had  one  bigger  than  a  dried  walnut. 
But  it  is  no  matter.  .  .  .  Now  as  to  walnuts.  After  service 
comes  reward.  I  have  said  the  village  is  thine.' 

'It  is  my  loss,'  Kim  began.  'Even  now  I  have  planned  desir- 
able things  in  my  heart  which  —  there  is  no  need  to  go  through  the 
compliments  proper  to  these  occasions.'  He  sighed  deeply.  .  . 
'but  my  master,  led  by  a  vision ' 

'Huh!    What  can  old  eyes  see  except  a  full  begging-bowl?' 
'Turns  from  this  village  to  the  plains  again.' 

'Bid  him  stay.' 

Kim  shook  his  head.  'I  know  my  Holy  One,  and  his  rage  if  he 
be  crossed,'  he  replied  portentously.  'His  curses  shake  the  hills.' 


KIM  323 

'Pity  they  did  not  save  him  from  a  broken  head!  I  heard  that 
thou  wast  the  tiger-hearted  one  who  smote  the  Sahib.  Let  him 
dream  a  little  longer.  Stay!' 

'Hill- woman,5  said  Kim,  with  austerity  that  could  not  harden 
the  outlines  of  his  young  oval  face,  'these  matters  are  too  high  for 
thee.' 

'The  Gods  be  good  to  us!  Since  when  have  men  and  women 
been  other  than  men  and  women?' 

'A  priest  is  a  priest.  He  says  he  will  go  upon  this  hour.  I  am 
his  chela,  and  I  go  with  him.  We  need  food  for  the  road.  He  is 
an  honoured  guest  in  all  the  villages,  but  —  he  broke  into  a  pure 
boy's  grin  —  'the  food  here  is  good.  Give  me  some.' 

'What  if  I  do  not  give  it  thee?  I  am  the  woman  of  this 
village.' 

'Then  I  curse  thee  —  a  little  —  not  greatly,  but  enough  to  re- 
member.' He  could  not  help  smiling. 

'Thou  hast  cursed  me  already  by  the  down-dropped  eyelash  and 
the  uplifted  chin.  Curses?  What  should  I  care  for  mere  words?' 
She  clenched  her  hands  upon  her  bosom.  .  .  .  'But  I  would 
not  have  thee  to  go  in  anger,  thinking  hardly  of  me  —  a  gatherer 
of  cow-dung  and  grass  at  Shamlegh,  but  still  a  woman  of  sub- 
stance.' 

'I  think  nothing,'  said  Kim,  'but  that  I  am  grieved  to  go,  for  I 
am  very  tired,  and  that  we  need  food.  Here  is  the  bag.' 

The  woman  snatched  it  angrily.  'I  was  foolish,'  said  she. 
t'Who  is  thy  woman  in  the  plains?  Fair  or  black?  I  was  fair 
once.  Laughest  thou  ?  Once,  long  ago,  if  thou  canst  believe  me, 
a  Sahib  looked  on  me  with  favour.  Once,  long  ago,  I  wore  Euro- 
pean clothes  at  the  Mission-house  yonder.'  She  pointed  toward 
Kotgarh.  "Once,  long  ago,  I  was  Ker-lis-ti-an  and  spoke  English 


324  KIM 

—  as  the  Sahibs  speak  it.  Yes.  My  Sahib  said  he  would  return 
and  wed  me  -  -  yes,  wed  me.  He  went  away  —  I  had  nursed  him 
when  he  was  sick  —  but  he  never  returned.  Then  I  saw  that  the 
Gods  of  the  Kerlistians  lied,  and  I  went  back  to  my  own  people. 
.  .  .  I  have  never  set  eyes  on  a  Sahib  since.  (Do  not  laugh  at 
me.  The  fit  is  past,  little  priestling.)  Thy  face  and  thy  walk  and 
thy  fashion  of  speech  put  me  in  mind  of  my  Sahib,  though  thou 
art  only  a  wandering  mendicant  to  whom  I  give  a  dole.  Curse 
me?  Thou  canst  neither  curse  nor  bless!'  She  set  her  hands  on 
her  hips  and  laughed  bitterly.  'Thy  gods  are  lies;  thy  works  are 
lies;  thy  words  are  lies.  There  are  no  Gods  under  all  the  heavens. 
I  know  it.  ...  But  for  a  while  I  thought  it  was  my  Sahib 
come  back,  and  he  was  my  God.  Yes,  once  I  made  music  on  a 
piano  in  the  Mission-house  at  Kotgarh.  Now  I  give  alms  to 
priests  who  are  heathen?  She  wound  up  with  the  English  word, 
and  tied  the  mouth  of  the  brimming  bag. 

'I  wait  for  thee,  chela,1  said  the  lama,  leaning  against  the  door- 
post. 

The  woman  swept  the  tall  figure  with  her  eyes.  'He  walk? 
He  cannot  step  half  a  koss.  Whither  would  old  bones  go?' 

At  this  Kim,  already  perplexed  by  the  lama's  collapse  and  fore- 
seeing the  weight  of  the  bag,  fairly  lost  his  temper. 

'What  is  it  to  thee,  woman  of  ill-omen,  where  he  goes?' 

'Nothing  —  but  something  to  thee,  priest  with  a  Sahib's  face. 
Wilt  thou  carry  him  on  thy  shoulders?' 

'I  go  to  the  plains.  None  must  hinder  my  return.  I  have 
wrestled  with  my  soul  till  I  am  strengthless.  Help  me,  chela, 
the  stupid  body  is  spent,  and  we  are  far  from  the  plains.' 

'Behold!'  she  said  simply,  and  drew  aside  to  let  Kim  see  his  own 
utter  helplessness.  'Curse  me.  Maybe  it  will  give  him  strength. 


KIM  325 

Make  a  charm!     Call  on  thy  great  God.     Thou  art  a  priest.' 
She  turned  away. 

The  lama  had  squatted  limply,  still  holding  by  the  door-post. 
One  cannot  strike  down  an  old  man  that  he  recovers  again  like  a 
boy  in  a  night.  Weakness  bowed  him  to  the  earth,  but  his  eyes 
that  hung  on  Kim  were  alive  and  imploring. 

1  It  is  all  well,'  said  Kim.  'It  is  the  thin  air  that  weakens  thee. 
In  a  little  while  we  go!  It  is  the  mountain  sickness.  I  too  am  a 
little  sick  at  stomach,'  .  .  .  and  he  knelt  and  comforted  with 
such  poor  words  as  came  first  to  his  lips.  Then  the  woman  re- 
turned, more  erect  than  ever. 

'Thy  Gods  useless,  heh ?  Try  mine.  I  am  the  Woman  of  Sham- 
legh.'  She  hailed  hoarsely,  and  there  came  out  of  a  cattle-pen  her 
two  husbands  and  three  others  with  a  dooli,  the  rude  native  litter 
of  the  hills,  that  they  use  for  carrying  the  sick  and  for  visits  of 
state.  'These  cattle,'  she  did  not  condescend  to  look  at  them, 
'are  thine  for  so  long  as  thou  shalt  need.' 

'  But  we  will  not  go  Simla  way.  We  will  not  go  near  the  Sahibs,' 
cried  the  first  husband. 

'They  will  not  run  away  as  the  others  did,  nor  will  they  steal 
baggage.  Two  I  know  for  weaklings.  Stand  to  the  rear-pole, 
Sonoo  and  Taree.'  They  obeyed  swiftly.  'Lower  now,  and  lift 
in  that  holy  man.  I  will  see  to  the  village  and  your  virtuous  wives 
till  ye  return.' 

'When  will  that  be?' 

'Ask  the  priests.  Do  not  pester  me.  Lay  the  food-bag  at  the 
foot.  It  balances  better  so.' 

'Oh,  Holy  One,  thy  hills  are  kinder  than  our  plains!'  cried  Kim, 
relieved,  as  the  lama  tottered  to  the  litter.  'It  is  a  very  king's 
bed  —  a  place  of  honour  and  ease.  And  we  owe  it  to ' 


326  KIM 

'  A  woman  of  ill-omen.  I  need  thy  blessings  as  much  as  I  do  thy 
curses.  It  is  my  order  and  none  of  thine.  Lift  and  away!  Hear! 
Hast  thou  money  for  the  road?' 

She  beckoned  Kim  to  her  hut,  and  stooped  above  a  battered 
English  cash-box  under  her  cot. 

1 1  do  not  need  anything,'  said  Kim,  angered  where  he  should 
have  been  grateful.  'I  am  already  rudely  loaded  with  favours.' 

She  looked  up  with  a  curious  smile  and  laid  a  hand  on  his  shoul- 
der. ' At  least,  thank  me.  I  am  foul-faced  and  a  hill-woman,  but, 
as  thy  talk  goes,  I  have  acquired  merit.  Shall  I  show  thee  how  the 
Sahibs  render  thanks?'  and  her  hard  eyes  softened. 

'I  am  but  a  wandering  priest,'  said  Kim,  his  eyes  lighting  in 
answer.  'Thou  needest  neither  my  blessings  nor  my  curses.' 

'Nay.  But  for  one  little  moment  —  thou  canst  overtake  the 
dooli  in  ten  strides —  if  thou  wast  a  Sahib,  shall  I  show  thee  what 
thou  wouldst  do?' 

'How  if  I  know,  though?'  said  Kim,  and  putting  his  arm  around 
her  waist,  he  kissed  her  on  the  cheek,  adding  in  English:  'Thank 
you  verree  much,  my  dear.' 

Kissing  is  practically  unknown  among  Asiatics,  which  may  have 
been  the  reason  that  she  leaned  back  with  wide-open  eyes  and  a 
face  of  panic. 

'Next  time,'  Kim  went  on,  'you  must  not  be  so  sure  of  your 
heathen  priests.  Now  I  say  good-bye.'  He  held  out  his  hand 
English  fashion.  She  took  it  mechanically.  'Good-bye,  my 
dear.' 

'Good-bye,  and  —  and  — '  she  was  remembering  her  English'words 
one  by  one-     'you  will   come  back   again?     Good-bye,   and - 
thee  God  bless  you.' 

Half  an  hour  later,  as  the  creaking  litter  jolted  up  the  hill  path 


KIM  327 

that  leads  south-easterly  from  Shamlegh,  Kim  saw  a  tiny  figure 
at  the  hut  door  waving  a  white  rag. 

' She  has  acquired  merit  beyond  all  others/  said  the  lama.  'For 
to  set  a  man  upon  the  way  to  Freedom  is  half  as  great  as  though 
she  had  herself  found  it.' 

'Umm,'  said  Kim  thoughtfully,  considering  the  past.  'It  may 
be  that  I  have  acquired  merit  also.  ...  At  least  she  did  not 
treat  me  like  a  child.'  He  hitched  the  front  of  his  robe,  where  lay 
the  slab  of  documents  and  maps,  restowed  the  precious  food-bag 
at  the  lama's  feet,  laid  his  hand  on  the  litter  edge,  and  buckled 
down  to  the  slow  pace  of  the  grunting  husbands. 

'These  also  acquire  merit,'  said  the  lama,  after  three  miles. 

'More  than  that,  they  shall  be  paid  in  silver,'  quoth  Kim.  The 
Woman  of  Shamlegh  had  given  it  to  him;  and  it  was  only  fair,  he 
argued,  that  her  men  should  earn  it  back  again. 


CHAPTER  XV 

I'd  not  give  room  for  an  Emperor  — 

I'd  hold  my  road  for  a  King. 
To  the  Triple  Crown  I'd  not  bow  down  — 

But  this  is  a  different  thing! 
7'11  not  fight  with  the  Powers  of  Air  — 

Sentries  pass  him  through! 
Drawbridge  let  fall  —  He's  the  Lord  of  us  all  — 

The  Dreamer  whose  dream  came  true! 

The  Siege  of  the  Fairies. 

Two  hundred  miles  north  of  Chini,  on  the  blue  shade  of  Ladahk, 
lies  Yankling  Sahib,  a  merry-minded  man,  spy-glassing  wrath- 
fully  across  the  ridges  for  some  sign  of  his  pet  tracker  —  a  man  from 
Ao-chung.  But  that  renegade,  with  a  new  Mannlicher  rifle  and 
two  hundred  cartridges,  is  elsewhere,  shooting  musk-deer  for  the 
market,  and  Yankling  Sahib  will  learn  next  season  how  very  ill  he 
has  been. 

Up  the  valleys  of  Bushahr  —  the  far  beholding  eagles  of  the 
Himalayas  swerve  at  his  new  blue-and- white  gored  umbrella  — 
hurries  a  Bengali,  once  fat  and  well-looking,  now  lean  and  weather- 
worn. He  has  received  the  thanks  of  two  foreigners  of  distinction, 
whom  he  has  piloted  not  unskilfully  to  Mashobra  tunnel  which 
leads  to  the  great  and  gay  capital  of  India.  It  was  not  his  fault 
that,  blanketed  by  wet  mists,  he  conveyed  them  past  the  tele- 
graph station  and  European  colony  of  Kotgarh.  It  was  not  his 
fault,  but  that  of  the  Gods,  of  whom  he  discoursed  so  engagingly, 
that  he  led  them  into  the  borders  of  Nahan,  where  the  Rajah  of 

328 


KIM  329 

that  state  mistook  them  for  deserting  British  soldiery.  Hurree 
Babu  explained  the  greatness  and  glory,  in  their  own  country,  of 
his  companions,  till  the  drowsy  kinglet  smiled.  He  explained 
it  to  every  one  who  asked  —  many  times  —  aloud  —  variously. 
He  begged  food,  arranged  accommodation,  proved  a  skilful  leech 
for  an  injury  of  the  groin  —  such  a  blow  as  one  may  receive  rolling 
down  a  rock-covered  hillside  in  the  dark  —  and  in  all  things  in- 
dispensable. The  reason  of  his  friendliness  did  him  credit.  With 
millions  of  fellow-serfs,  he  had  learned  to  look  upon  Russia  as  the 
great  deliverer  from  the  North.  He  was  a  fearful  man.  He  had 
been  afraid  that  he  could  not  save  his  illustrious  employers  from 
the  anger  of  an  excited  peasantry.  He  himself  would  just  as  lief 
hit  a  holy  man  as  not,  but  .  .  .  He  was  deeply  grateful  and 
sincerely  rejoiced  that  he  had  done  his  'little  possible'  toward 
bringing  their  venture  to  —  barring  the  lost  baggage  —  a  success- 
ful issue.  He  had  forgotten  the  blows;  denied  that  any  blows  had 
been  dealt  that  unseemly  first  night  under  the  pines.  He  asked 
neither  pension  nor  retaining  fee,  but,  if  they  deemed  him  worthy, 
would  they  write  him  a  testimonial?  It  might  be  useful  to  him 
later,  if  other,  their  friends,  came  over  the  passes.  He  begged 
^them  to  remember  him  in  their  future  greatnesses,  for  he  'opined 
subtly'  that  he,  even  he,  Mohendro  Lai  Dutt,  M.A.  of  Calcutta, 
had  'done  the  state  some  service.' 

They  gave  him  a  certificate  praising  his  courtesy,  helpfulness, 
and  unerring  skill  as  a  guide.  He  put  it  in  his  waist-belt  and 
sobbed  with  emotion;  they  had  endured  so  many  dangers  together. 
He  led  them  at  high  noon  along  crowded  Simla  Mall  to  the  Alliance 
Bank  of  Simla  where  they  wished  to  establish  their  identity. 
Thence  he  vanished  like  a  dawn-cloud  on  Jakko. 

Behold  him,  too  fine  drawn  to  sweat,  too  pressed  to  vaunt  the 


330  KIM 

drugs  in  his  little  brass-bound  box,  ascending  Shamlegh  slope,  a 
just  man  made  perfect.  Watch  him,  all  Babudom  laid  aside, 
smoking  at  noon  on  a  cot,  while  a  woman  with  turquoise-studded 
headgear  points  south-easterly  across  the  bare  grass.  Litters,  she 
says,  do  not  travel  as  fast  as  single  men,  but  his  birds  should  now 
be  in  the  plains.  The  Holy  Man  would  not  stay  though  she  pressed 
him.  The  Babu  groans  ponderously,  girds  up  his  huge  loins, 
and  is  off  again.  He  does  not  care  to  travel  after  dusk;  but  his 
days'  marches  -  -  there  is  none  to  enter  them  in  a  book  —  would 
astonish  folk  who  laugh  at  his  race.  Kindly  villages,  remember- 
ing the  Dacca  drug-vendor  of  two  months  ago,  give  him  shelter 
against  evil  spirits  of  the  wood.  He  dreams  of  Bengali  gods, 
University  text-books  of  his  education,  and  the  Royal  Society, 
London,  England.  Next  dawn  the  bobbing  blue-and-white  um- 
brella goes  forward. 

On  the  edge  of  the  Doon,  Mussoorie  well  behind  them  and  the 
plains  laid  out  in  golden  dusk  before,  rests  a  \vorn  litter  in  which  — 
all  the  hills  know  it  -  -  lies  a  sick  lama  who  seeks  a  River  for  his 
healing.  Villages  have  almost  come  to  blows  for  the  honour  of 
bearing  it,  and  not  only  has  the  lama  given  them  blessings,  but  his 
disciple  good  money  -  -  full  one-third  Sahib's  prices.  Twelve 
miles  a  day  has  the  dooli  travelled,  as  the  greasy,  rubbed  pole-ends 
show,  and  by  roads  that  few  Sahibs  use.  Over  the  Nilang  Pass  in 
storm  when  the  driven  snow-dust  filled  every  fold  of  the  impassive 
lama's  drapery;  between  the  black  horns  of  Raieng-  -where  they 
heard  the  whistle  of  the  wild  goats  through  the  clouds;  pitching  and 
strained  on  the  shale  below;  hard  held  between  shoulder  and 
clenched  jaw  when  they  rounded  the  hideous  curves  of  the  Cut  Road 
above  Bhagirati;  swinging  and  creaking  to  the  steady  jog-trot  of 
the  descent  into  the  Valley  of  the  Waters;  pressed  along  the  steamy 


KIM  331 

levels  of  that  locked  valley;  up,  up  and  out  again,  to  meet  the  roar- 
ing guests  off  Kedarnath;  set  down  of  middays  in  the  dun-gloom 
of  kindly  oak-forests ;  passed  from  village  to  village  in  dawn-chill, 
when  even  devotees  may  be  forgiven  for  swearing  at  impatient 
holy  men;  or  by  torchlight,  when  the  least  fearful  think  of  ghosts, 
the  dooli  has  reached  her  last  stage.  The  little  hillfolk  sweat  in 
the  modified  heat  of  the  lower  Sewaliks,  and  gather  round  the  priests 
for  their  blessing  and  their  wage. 

'Ye  have  acquired  merit,'  says  the  lama.  'Merit  greater  than 
your  knowing.  And  ye  will  return  to  the  hills,'  he  sighs. 

'Surely.  The  high  hills  as  soon  as  may  be.'  The  bearer  rubs 
his  shoulder,  drinks  water,  spits  it  out  again,  and  readjusts  his  grass 
sandal.  Kim  —  his  face  is  drawn  and  tired  —  pays  very  small 
silver  from  his  belt,  heaves  out  the  food-bag,  sticks  an  oilskin 
packet  —  they  are  holy  writings  —  into  his  bosom,  and  helps  the 
lama  to  his  feet.  The  peace  has  come  again  into  the  old  man's 
eyes,  and  he  does  not  look  for  the  hills  to  fall  down  and  curse  him 
as  he  did  that  terrible  night  when  they  were  delayed  by  the  flooded 
river. 

The  hillmen  pick  up  the  dooli  and  swing  out  of  sight  between 
the  scrub  clumps. 

The  lama  raises  a  hand  to  the  rampart  of  the  Himalayas.  'Not 
with  you,  O  blessed  among  all  hills,  fell  the  Arrow  of  Our  Lord! 
And  never  shall  I  breathe  your  air  again.' 

'But  thou  art  ten  times  the  stronger  man  in  this  good  air,'  says 
Kim,  for  to  his  wearied  soul  appeal  the  fat,  well-cropped,  kindly 
plains.  'Here,  or  hereabout,  fell  the  Arrow.  We  will  go  very 
softly,  perhaps  a  koss  a  day,  for  the  Search  is  sure.  But  the  bag 
weighs  heavy.' 

'Ay,  our  Search  is  sure.     I  have  come  out  of  great  temptation.' 


332  KIM 

It  was  never  more  than  a  couple  of  miles  a  day  now,  and  Kim's 
shoulders  bore  all  the  weight  of  it  —  the  burden  of  an  old  man,  the 
burden  of  the  heavy  food-bag  with  the  locked  books,  the  load  of 
the  writings  on  his  heart,  and  the  details  of  the  daily  routine.  He 
begged  in  the  dawn,  set  blankets  for  the  lama's  meditation,  held 
the  weary  head  on  his  lap  through  the  noonday  heats,  fanning 
away  the  flies  till  his  wrist  ached,  begged  again  in  the  evenings,  and 
rubbed  the  lama's  feet,  who  rewarded  him  with  promise  of  Free- 
dom —  to-day,  to-morrow,  or,  at  furthest,  the  next  day. 

'Never  was  such  a  chela.  I  doubt  at  times  whether  Ananda 
more  faithfully  nursed  our  Lord.  And  thou  art  a  Sahib?  When 
I  was  a  man  —  a  long  time  ago  —  I  forgot  that.  Now  I  look  upon 
thee  often,  and  every  time  I  remember  that  thou  art  a  Sahib.  It 
is  strange.' 

'Thou  hast  said  there  is  neither  black  nor  white.  Why  plague 
me  with  this  talk,  Holy  One?  Let  me  rub  the  other  foot.  It 
vexes  me.  I  am  not  a  Sahib.  I  am  thy  chela,  and  my  head  is 
heavy  on  my  shoulders.' 

'Patience  a  little!  We  will  reach  Freedom  together.  Then 
thou  and  I,  upon  the  far  bank  of  the  River,  will  look  back  upon  our 
lives  as  in  the  hills  we  saw  our  day's  marches  laid  out  behind  us. 
Perhaps  I  was  once  a  Sahib.' 

'Was  never  a  Sahib  like  thee,  I  swear  it.' 

'I  am  certain  the  Keeper  of  the  Images  in  the  Wonder  House 
was  in  past  life  a  very  wise  abbot.  But  even  his  spectacles  do 
not  make  my  eyes  see.  There  fall  shadows  when  I  would  look 
steadily.  No  matter  —  we  know  the  tricks  of  the  poor  stupid 
carcass  -  -  shadow  changing  to  another  shadow.  I  am  bound  by 
the  illusion  of  time  and  space.  How  far  came  we  to-day  in  the 
flesh?' 


KIM  333 

'Perhaps  half  a  koss.'  Three-quarters  of  a  mile,  and  it  was  a 
weary  march. 

'Half  a  koss.  Ha!  I  went  ten  thousand  thousand  in  the  spirit. 
How  we  are  all  lapped  and  swathed  and  swaddled  in  these  senseless 
things.'  He  looked  at  his  thin  blue- veined  hand  that  found  the 
beads  so  heavy.  'Chela,  hast  thou  never  a  wish  to  leave  me?' 

Kim  thought  of  the  oilskin  packet  and  the  books  in  the  food- 
bag.  If  some  one  duly  authorized  would  only  take  delivery  of 
them  the  Great  Game  might  play  itself  for  aught  he  then  cared. 
He  was  tired  and  hot  in  his  head,  and  a  cough  that  came  from  the 
stomach  worried  him. 

'No,'  he  said  almost  sternly.  £I  am  not  a  dog  or  a  snake  to  bite 
when  I  have  learned  to  love.' 

'Thou  art  too  tender  for  me.' 

'Not  that  either.  I  have  moved  in  one  matter  without  consult- 
ing thee.  I  have  sent  a  message  to  the  Kulu  woman  by  that 
woman  who  gave  us  the  goat's  milk  this  morn,  saying  that  thou 
wast  a  little  feeble  and  would  need  a  litter.  I  beat  myself  in  my 
mind  that  I  did  not  do  it  when  we  entered  the  Doon.  We  stay 
in  this  place  till  the  litter  returns.' 

'I  am  content.  She  is  a  woman  with  a  heart  of  gold,  as  thou 
sayest,  but  a  talker  —  something  of  a  talker.' 

'She  will  not  weary  thee.  I  have  looked  to  that  also.  Holy 
One,  my  heart  is  very  heavy  for  my  many  carelessnesses  toward 
thee.'  A  catch  rose  in  his  throat.  'I  have  walked  thee  too  far;  I 
have  not  picked  good  food  always  for  thee;  I  have  not  considered 
the  heat;  I  have  talked  to  people  on  the  road  and  left  thee  alone. 
.  .  .  I  have  —  I  have  .  .  .  Hai  mail  But  I  love  thee  .  . 
and  it  is  all  too  late  ...  I  was  a  child.  .  .  .  Oh  why 
was  I  not  a  man?  .  .  .'  Overcome  by  strain,  fatigue,  and  the 


334  K  I  M 

weight  beyond  his  years,  Kim  broke  down  and  sobbed  at  the 

lama's  feet. 

'What  a  to  do  is  here,'  said  the  old  man  gently.  'Thou  hast 
never  stepped  a  hair's  breadth  from  the  Way  of  Obedience.  Neg- 
lect me?  Child  —  I  have  lived  on  thy  strength  as  an  old  tree  lives 
on  the  lime  of  a  new  wall.  Day  by  day,  since  Shamlegh  Doun, 
I  have  stolen  strength  from  thee.  Therefore,  not  through  any  sin 
of  thine,  art  thou  weakened.  It  is  the  body  —  the  silly,  stupid 
body  —  that  speaks  now.  Not  the  assured  soul.  Be  comforted ! 
Know  the  devils,  at  least,  that  thou  lightest.  They  are  earth- 
born  —  children  of  illusion.  We  will  go  to  the  woman  from  Kulu. 
She  shall  acquire  merit  in  housing  us,  and  specially  in  tending  me. 
Thou  shalt  run  free  till  strength  returns.  I  had  forgotten  the 
stupid  body.  If  there  be  any  blame,  I  bear  it.  But  we  are  too 
close  to  the  gates  of  deliverance  to  weigh  blame.  I  could  praise 
thee,  but  what  need?  In  a  little  -  -  in  a  very  little  —  we  shall  sit 
beyond  all  needs.' 

And  so  he  petted  and  comforted  Kim  with  wise  saws  and  grave 
texts  on  that  little  understood  beast,  our  body,  who,  being  but  a 
delusion,  insists  on  posing  as  the  soul,  to  the  darkening  of  the  Way, 
and  the  immense  multiplication  of  unnecessary  devils. 

'  Hai !  hai !  Let  us  talk  of  the  woman  from  Kulu.  Think  you  she 
will  ask  another  charm  for  her  grandsons?  When  I  was  a  young 
man,  a  very  long  time  ago,  I  was  plagued  with  these  vapours,  and 
some  others,  and  I  went  to  an  abbot  —  a  very  holy  man  and  a 
seeker  after  truth,  though  then  I  knew  it  not.  Sit  up  and  listen, 
child  of  my  soul!  My  tale  was  told.  Said  he  to  me,  "Chela, 
know  this.  There  are  many  lies  in  the  world,  and  not  a  few  liars, 
but  there  are  no  liars  like  our  bodies,  except  it  be  the  sensations  of 
our  bodies."  Considering  this  I  was  comforted,  and  of  his  great 


KIM  335 

favour  he  suffered  me  to  drink  tea  in  his  presence.      Suffer  me  not 
to  drink  tea,  for  I  am  thirsty.' 

With  a  laugh  above  his  tears,  Kim  kissed  the  lama's  feet,  and 
went  about  tea-making. 

'Thou  leanest  on  me  in  the  body,  Holy  One,  but  I  lean  on  thee 
for  all  other  things.  Dost  thou  know  it?' 

*I  have  guessed  maybe,'  and  the  lama's  eyes  twinkled.  'We 
must  change  that.' 

So,  when  with  scufflings  and  scrapings  and  a  hot  air  of  impor- 
tance, paddled  up  nothing  less  than  the  Sahiba's  pet  palanquin  sent 
twenty  miles,  with  that  same  grizzled  old  Oorya  servant  in  charge, 
and  when  they  reached  the  disorderly  order  of  the  long  white  ram- 
bling house  behind  Saharunpore,  the  lama  took  his  own  measures. 

Said  the  Sahiba  cheerily  from  an  upper  window,  after  compli- 
ments: 'What  is  the  good  of  an  old  woman's  advice  to  an  old 
man?  I  told  thee  —  I  told  thee,  Holy  One,  to  keep  an  eye  upon 
the  chela.  How  didst  thou  do  it?  Never  answer  me!  /  know. 
He  has  been  running  among  the  women.  Look  at  his  eyes - 
hollow  and  sunk!  And  the  Betraying  Line  from  the  nose  down. 
He  has  been  sifted  out!  Fie!  Fie!  And  a  priest,  too!' 

Kim  looked  up  almost  too  weary  to  smile,  shaking  his  head  in 

denial. 

'Do  not  jest,'  said  the  lama.  'That  time  is  done.  We  are  here 
upon  great  matters.  A  sickness  of  soul  took  me  in  the  hills,  and 
him  a  sickness  of  the  body.  Since  then  I  have  lived  upon  his 
strength  —  eating  him.' 

'Children  together  —  young  and  old,'  she  sniffed,  but  forebore 
to  make  any  new  jokes.  'May  this  present  hospitality  restore  ye. 
Hold  a  while  and  I  will  come  to  gossip  of  the  high  good  hills.' 

At  evening  time  —  her  son-in-law  was  returned,  so  she  did  not 


336  KIM 

need  to  go  on  inspection  round  the  farm  —  she  won  to  the  meat  of 
the  matter,  explained  low-voicedly  by  the  lama.  The  two  old 
heads  nodded  wisely  together.  Kim  had  staggered  to  a  room  with 
a  cot  in  it,  and  was  dozing  soddenly.  The  lama  had  forbidden  him 
to  set  blankets  or  get  food. 

'I  know  —  I  know.  Who  but  I?'  she  cackled.  'We  who  go 
down  to  the  burning-ghats  clutch  at  the  hands  of  those  coming  up 
from  the  river  of  life  with  full  water-jars.  Yes,  brimming  water- 
jars.  I  did  the  boy  wrong.  He  lent  thee  his  strength  ?  It  is  true 
that  the  old  eat  the  young  daily.  Stands  now  that  we  must  re- 
store him.' 

'Thou  hast  many  times  acquired  merit.' 

'My  merit.  What  is  it?  Old  bag  of  bones  making  curries  for 
men  who  do  not  ask  "Who  cooked  this?':  Now  if  it  were  stored 
up  for  my  grandson ' 

'He  that  had  the  belly-pain?' 

'To  think  the  Holy  One  remembers  that.     I  must  tell  his  mother. 
It  is   most  singular  honour!     "He  that  had  the  belly-pain"  — 
straightway  the  Holy  One  remembered.     She  will  be  proud.' 

'My  chela  is  to  me  as  is  a  son  to  the  unenlightened.' 

'  Say  grandson,  rather.  Mothers  have  not  the  wisdom  of  our  years. 
If  a  child  cries  they  say  the  heavens  are  falling.  Now  a  grand- 
mother is  far  enough  separated  from  the  pain  of  bearing  and  the 
pleasure  of  giving  the  breast  to  consider  whether  a  cry  is  pure 
.  wickedness  or  the  wind.  And  since  thou  speakest  once  again  of 
wind,  when  last  the  Holy  One  was  here,  maybe  I  offended  in  press- 
ing for  charms.' 

'Sister,'  said  the  lama,  using  that  form  of  address  a  Buddhist 
monk  may  sometimes  employ  toward  a  nun,  'if  charms  comfort 
thee ' 


KIM  337 

'They  are  better  than  ten  thousand  hakims.'9 

'I  say,  if  they  comfort  thee,  I  who  was  Abbot  of  Suchzen,  will 
make  as  many  as  thou  mayest  desire.  I  have  never  seen  thy 
face ' 

'That  even  the  monkeys  who  steal  our  loquata  count  for  a  gain. 
Heelhee!' 

'But  as  he  who  sleeps  there  said,'  he  nodded  at  the  shut  door  of 
the  guest-chamber  across  the  forecourt,  'thou  hast  a  heart  of 
gold.  .  .  .  And  he  is  in  the  spirit  my  very  "grandson"  to  me.' 

'Good!  I  am  the  Holy  One's  cow,'  this  was  pure  Hinduism, 
but  the  lama  never  heeded.  'I  am  old.  I  have  borne  sons  in  the 
body.  Oh  once  I  could  please  men!  Now  I  can  cure  them.'  He 
heard  her  armlets  tinkle  as  though  she  bared  arms  for  action.  'I 
will  take  over  the  boy  and  dose  him,  and  stuff  him,  and  make  him 
all  whole.  Hai!  hai!  We  old  people  know  something  yet.' 

Wherefore  when  Kim,  aching  in  every  bone,  opened  his  eyes, 
and  would  go  to  the  cook-house  to  get  his  master's  food,  he  found 
strong  coercion  about  him,  and  a  veiled  old  figure  at  the  door, 
flanked  by  the  grizzled  manservant,  who  told  him  precisely  the 
very  things  that  he  was  on  no  account  to  do. 

'Thou  must  have  —  thou  shalt  have  nothing.  What?  A 
locked  box  in  which  to  keep  holy  books?  Oh,  that  is  another 
matter.  Heavens  forbid  I  should  come  between  a  priest  and  his 
prayers!  It  shall  be  brought,  and  thou  shalt  keep  the  key.' 

They  pushed  the  coffer  under  his  cot,  and  Kim  shut  away  Mah- 
bub's  pistol,  the  oilskin  packet  of  letters,  and  the  locked  books  and 
diaries,  with  a  groan  of  relief.  For  some  absurd  reason  their 
weight  on  his  shoulders  was  nothing  to  their  weight  on  his  poor 
mind.  His  neck  ached  under  it  of  nights. 

'Thine  is  a  sickness  uncommon  in  youth  these  days:  for  young 


338  K  I  M 

folk  have  given  up  tending  their  betters.     The  remedy  is  sleep, 
and  certain  drugs,'  said  the  Sahiba. 

She  brewed  drinks,  in  some  mysterious  Asiatic  equivalent  to  the 
still-room  —  drenches  that  smelt  pestilently  and  tasted  worse. 
She  stood  over  Kim  till  they  went  down  and  inquired  exhaustively 
after  they  had  come  up.  She  laid  a  taboo  upon  the  forecourt,  and 
enforced  it  by  means  of  an  armed  man.  It  is  true  he  was  seventy 
odd,  that  his  scabbarded  sword  ceased  at  the  hilt;  but  he  repre- 
sented the  authority  of  the  Sahiba,  and  loaded  wains,  chattering 
servants,  calves,  dogs,  hens,  and  the  like,  fetched  a  wide  compass 
by  those  parts.  Best  of  all,  when  the  body  was  cleared,  she  cut 
out  from  the  mass  of  poor  relations  that  crowded  the  back  of  the 
buildings  -  -  household  dogs,  we  name  them  —  a  cousin's  widow, 
skilled  in  what  Europeans,  who  know  very  little  about  it,  call  mas- 
sage. And  the  two  of  them,  laying  him  east  and  west,  that  the 
mysterious  earth-currents  which  thrill  the  clay  of  our  bodies  might 
help  and  not  hinder,  took  him  to  pieces  all  one  long  afternoon  — 
bone  by  bone,  muscle  by  muscle,  ligament  by  ligament,  and  lastly, 
nerve  by  nerve.  Kneaded  to  irresponsible  pulp,  half  hypnotized 
by  the  perpetual  flick  and  readjustment  of  the  uneasy  chudders 
that  veiled  their  eyes,  Kim  slid  ten  thousand  miles  into  slumber  — 

thirty-six  hours  of  it  —  sleep  that  soaked  like  rain  after  drought. 

\ 

Then  she  fed  him,  and  the  house  spun  to  her  clamour.  She' 
caused  fowls  to  be  slain;  she  sent  for  vegetables,  and  the  sober,  slow- 
thinking  gardener,  nigh  as  old  as  she,  sweated  for  it;  she  took 
spices,  and  milk,  and  onion,  with  little  fish  from  the  brooks  — 
anon  limes  for  sherbets,  quails  of  the  pit,  then  chicken  livers  upon 
a  skewer,  with  sliced  ginger  between. 

*I  have  seen  something  of  this  world,'  she  said  over  the  crowded 
trays,  '  and  there  are  but  two  sorts  of  women  in  it  —  those  who 


KIM  339 

take  the  strength  out  of  a  man  and  those  who  put  it  back.  Once 
I  was  that  one,  and  now  I  am  this.  Nay  -  -  do  not  play  the 
priestling  with  me.  Mine  was  but  a  jest.  If  it  does  not  hold  good 
now,  it  will  when  thou  takest  the  road  again.  Cousin'  —  this  to 
the  poor  relation,  never  wearied  of  extolling  her  patroness's  charity 
—  'he  is  getting  a  bloom  on  the  skin  of  a  new-curried  horse.  Our 
work  is  like  polishing  jewels  to  be  thrown  to  a  dance-girl  —  eh  ? ' 

Kim  sat  up  and  smiled.  The  terrible  weakness  had  dropped 
from  him  like  an  old  shoe.  His  tongue  itched  for  free  speech 
again,  and  but  a  week  back  the  lightest  word  clogged  it  like  ashes. 
The  pain  in  his  neck  (he  must  have  caught  it  from  the  lama)  had 
gone  with  the  heavy  dengue-aches  and  the  evil  taste  in  his  mouth. 
The  two  old  women,  a  little,  but  not  much  more  careful  about  their 
veils  now,  clucked  as  merrily  as  the  hens  that  had  entered  picking 
through  the  open  door. 

'Where  is  my  Holy  One?'  he  demanded. 

'Hear  him!  Thy  Holy  One  is  well,'  she  snapped  viciously. 
'Though  that  is  none  of  his  merit.  Knew  I  a  charm  to  make  him 
wise,  I'd  sell  my  jewels  and  buy  it.  To  refuse  good  food  -  -  that  I 
cooked  myself  —  and  go  roving  into  the  fields  for  two  nights  on  an 
empty  belly  —  and  to  tumble  into  a  brook  at  the  end  of  it.  Call 
you  that  holiness?  Then,  when  he  has  nearly  broken  what  thou 
hast  left  of  my  heart  with  anxiety  he  tells  me  that  he  has  acquired 
merit.  Oh  how  like  are  all  men !  No,  that  was  not  it  —  he  tells 
me  that  he  is  freed  from  all  sin.  /  could  have  told  him  that  be- 
fore he  wetted  himself  all  over.  He  is  well  now  -  -  this  happened 
a  week  ago  —  but  burn  me  such  holiness!  A  babe  of  three  would 
do  better.  Do  not  fret  thyself  for  the  Holy  One.  He  keeps  both 
eyes  on  thee  when  he  is  not  wading  our  brooks.' 

'I  do  not  remember  to  have  seen  him.     I  remember  that  the 


340  KIM 

days  and  nights  passed  like  bars  of  white  and  black,  opening  and 
shutting.  I  was  not  sick,  I  was  only  tired.' 

'A  lethargy  that  comes  by  right  some  few  score  years  later. 
But  it  is  all  done  now.' 

'Maharanee,'  Kim  began,  but  led  by  the  look  in  her  eye,  changed 
it  to  the  title  of  plain  love  —  '  Mother,  I  owe  my  life  to  thee.  How 
shall  I  make  thanks?  Ten  thousand  blessings  upon  thy  house 
and ' 

1  The  house  be  unblessed.'  (It  is  impossible  to  give  exactly  the 
old  lady's  word.)  'Thank  the  Gods  as  a  priest  if  thou  wilt,  but 
thank  me  if  thou  carest  as  a  son.  Heavens  above!  Have  I 
shifted  thee  and  lifted  thee  and  slapped  and  twisted  thy  ten  toes  to 
find  texts  flung  at  my  head  ?  Somewhere  a  mother  must  have  born 
thee  —  to  break  her  heart.  What  used  thou  to  her?  Son?' 

'I  had  no  mother,  my  mother,'  said  Kim.  'She  died,  they  tell 
me,  when  I  was  young.' 

'Hai  mai!  Then  none  can  say  I  have  robbed  her  of  any  right 
if,  when  thou  takest  the  road  again  and  this  house  is  but  one  of  a 
thousand  used  for  shelter  and  forgotten,  after  an  easy  flung  bless- 
ing. No  matter.  I  need  no  blessings,  but  —  but  -  She 
stamped  her  foot  at  the  poor  relation:  'Take  up  the  trays  to  the 
house.  What  is  the  good  of  stale  food  in  the  room,  oh  woman  of 
ill-omen  ? ' 

'I  ha-  -have  borne  a  son  in  my  time  too,  but  he  died,'  whim- 
pered the  bowed  sister  figure  behind  the  chudder.  'Thou  knowest 
he  died !  I  only  waited  for  the  order  to  take  away  the  tray.' 

'It  is  I  that  am  the  woman  of  ill-omen,'  cried  the  old  lady  pen- 
itently. 'We  that  go  down  to  the  chattris  (the  big  umbrellas  above 
the  burning-ghats  where  the  priests  take  their  last  dues),  clutch 
hard  at  the  bearers  of  the  chattis  (water-jars  —  young  folk  full  of 


KIM  341 

the  pride  of  life,  she  meant,  but  the  pun  is  clumsy).  When  one 
cannot  dance  in  the  festival  one  must  e'en  look  out  of  the  window, 
and  grandmothering  takes  all  a  woman's  time.  Thy  master  gives 
me  all  the  charms  I  now  desire  for  my  daughter's  eldest,  by  reason 
—  is  it?  —  that  he  is  wholly  free  from  sin.  The  hakim  is  brought 
very  low  these  days.  He  goes  about  poisoning  my  servants  for 
lack  of  their  betters.' 

'What  hakim,  mother?' 

'That  very  Dacca  man  who  gave  me  the  pill  which  rent  me  in 
three  pieces.  He  cast  up  like  a  strayed  camel  a  week  ago,  vowing 
that  he  and  thou  had  been  blood-brothers  together  up  Kulu  way, 
and  feigning  great  anxiety  for  thy  health.  He  was  very  thin  and 
hungry,  so  I  gave  orders  to  have  him  stuffed  too  —  him  and  his 
anxiety.' 

'I  would  see  him  if  he  ic  here.' 

'He  eats  five  times  a  day,  and  lances  boils  for  the  villagers  to 
save  himself  from  an  apoplexy.  He  is  so  full  of  anxiety  for  thy 
health  that  he  sticks  to  the  cook-house  door  and  stays  himself 
with  scraps.  He  will  keep.  We  shall  never  get  rid  of  him.' 

'  Send  him  here,  mother,'  —  the  twinkle  returned  to  Kim's  eyes 
for  a  flash  —  '  and  I  will  try.' 

Til  send  him,  but  to  chase  him  off  is  an  ill  turn.  At  least  he  had 
the  sense  to  fish  the  Holy  One  out  of  the  brook.  Thus,  as  the  Holy 
One  did  not  say,  acquiring  merit.' 

'He  is  a  very  wise  hakim.     Send  him,  mother.' 

'Priest  praising  priest,  a  miracle!  If  he  is  any  friend  of  thine 
(ye  squabbled  at  your  last  meeting)  I'll  hale  him  here  with  horse 
ropes  and  —  and  give  him  a  caste  dinner  afterward,  my  son. 
.  .  .  Get  up  and  see  the  world !  This  lying  abed  is  the  mother 
of  seventy  devils  .  .  .  my  son!  my  son!' 


342  K  I  M 

She  trotted  forth  to  raise  a  typhoon  off  the  cook-house,  and  al- 
most on  her  shadow  rolled  in  the  Babu,  robed  as  to  the  shoulders 
like  a  Roman  emperor,  jowled  like  Titus,  bare-headed,  with  new 
patent  leather  shoes,  in  highest  condition  of  fat,  exuding  joy  and 
salutations. 

'By  Jove,  Mister  O'Hara,  but  I  am  jolly  glad  to  see  you.  I  will 
kindly  shut  the  door.  It  is  a  pity  you  are  sick.  Are  you  very  sick? ' 

'The  papers  —  the  papers  from  the  kilta.  The  maps  and  the 
murasla!9  He  held  out  the  key  impatiently:  for  the  present  need 
on  his  soul  was  to  get  rid  of  the  loot. 

'You  are  quite  right.  That  is  correct  departmental  view  to 
take.  You  have  got  everything?' 

'All  that  was  handwritten  in  the  kilta  I  took.  The  rest  I  threw 
down  the  hill.'  He  could  hear  the  key's  grate  in  the  lock,  the 
sticky  pull  of  the  slow-rending  oilcloth,  and  a  quick  shuffling  of 
papers.  He  had  been  annoyed  out  of  all  reason  by  the  knowledge 
that  they  lay  below  him  through  the  sick  idle  days  —  a  burden  in- 
communicable. For  that  reason  the  blood  tingled  through  his 
body,  when  Hurree,  skipping  elephantinely,  shook  hands  again. 

'This  is  fine!  This  is  finest!  Mister  O'Hara!  You  have - 
ha!  ha!  -  -  swiped  the  whole  bag  of  tricks  —  locks,  stocks,  and  bar- 
rels. They  told  me  it  was  eight  months'  work  gone  up  the  spouts! 
By  Jove,  how  they  beat  me!  .  .  .  Look,  here  is  the  letter  from 
Hilas!'  He  intoned  a  line  or  two  of  court  Persian,  which  is  the 
language  of  authorized  and  unauthorized  diplomacy.  'Mister 
Raja  Sahib  has  just  about  put  his  foot  in  the  holes.  He  will  have 
to  explain  offeecially  how  the  deuce  an'  all  he  is  writing  love- 
letters  to  the  Czar.  And  they  are  very  cunning  maps 
and  there  is  three  or  four  Prime  Ministers  of  these  parts  implicated 
by  correspondence.  By  Gad,  Sar!  The  British  Government  will 


KIM  343 

change  the  succession  in  Hilas  and  Bunar,  and  nominate  new  heirs 
to  the  throne.  "Treason  most  base"  .  .  .  but  you  do  not 
understand?  Eh?' 

'Are  they  in  thy  hands?'  said  Kim.     It  was  all  he  cared  for. 

'Just  you  jolly  well  bet  yourself  they  are.'  He  stowed  the  en- 
tire trove  about  his  body,  as  only  Orientals  can.  'They  are  going 
up  to  the  office,  too.  The  old  lady  thinks  I  am  a  permanent  fixture 
here,  but  I  shall  go  away  with  these  straight  off  —  immediately. 
Mr.  Lurgan  will  be  proud  man.  You  are  offeecially  subordinate 
to  me,  but  I  shall  embody  your  name  in  my  verbal  report.  It  is  a 
pity  we  are  not  allowed  written  reports.  We  Bengalis  excel  in  the 
exact  science.'  He  tossed  back  the  key  and  showed  the  box 
empty. 

'Good.  That  is  good.  I  was  very  tired.  My  Holy  One  was 
sick,  too.  And  did  he  fall  into ' 

'Oah  yess.  I  am  his  good  friend,  I  tell  you.  He  was  behaving 
very  strange  when  I  came  down  after  you,  and  I  thought  perhaps 
he  might  have  the  papers.  I  followed  him  on  his  meditations,  and 
to  discuss  ethnological  points  also.  You  see,  I  am  verree  small 
person  here  nowadays,  in  comparison  with  all  his  charms.  By 
Jove,  O'Hara,  do  you  know,  he  is  afflicted  with  infirmity  of  fits. 
Yess,  I  tell  you.  Cataleptic,  too,  if  not  also  epileptic.  I  found 
him  in  such  a  state  under  a  tree  in  articulo  mortem,  and  he  jumped 
up  and  walked  into  a  brook  and  he  was  nearly  drowned  but  for  me. 
I  pulled  him  out.' 

'Because  I  was  not  there,'  said  Kim.     'He  might  have  died.' 

'Yes,  he  might  have  died,  but  he  is  dry  now,  and  asserts  he  has 
undergone    transfiguration.'     The    Babu    tapped    his    forehead 
knowingly.     'I  took  notes  of  his  statements  for  Royal  Society  — 
in  posse.     You  must  make  haste  and  be  quite  well  and  come  back 


344  KIM 

to  Simla,  and  I  will  tell  you  all  my  tale  at  Lurgan's.  It  was  splen- 
did. The  bottoms  of  their  trousers  were  quite  torn,  and  old  Nahan 
Raja,  he  thought  they  were  European  soldiers  deserting.' 

'The  Russians?     How  long  were  they  with  thee?' 

'One  was  a  Frenchman.  Oh,  days  and  days  and  days!  Now 
all  the  hill-people  believe  all  Russians  are  all  beggars.  By  Jove! 
they  had  not  one  damn  thing  that  I  did  not  get  them.  And  I 
told  the  common  people  —  oah,  such  tales  and  anecdotes !  I  will 
tell  you  at  old  Lurgan's  when  you  come  up.  We  will  have  —  all 
—  a  night  out!  It  is  feather  in  both  our  caps!  Yess,  and  they 
gave  me  a  certificate.  That  is  creaming  joke.  You  should  have 
seen  them  at  the  Alliance  Bank  identifying  themselves.  And 
thank  Almighty  God  you  got  their  papers  so  well!  You  do  not 
laugh  very  much,  but  you  shall  laugh  when  you  are  well.  Now 
I  will  go  straight  to  the  railway  and  get  out.  You  shall  have  all 
sorts  of  credits  for  your  game.  When  do  you  come  along?  We 
are  very  proud  of  you  though  you  gave  us  great  frights.  And 
especially  Mahbub.' 

'Ay,  Mahbub.     And  where  is  he?' 

'Selling  horses  in  this  vi-cinity,  of  course.' 

'Here!  Why?  Speak  slowly.  There  is  a  thickness  in  my 
head  still.' 

The  Babu  looked  shyly  down  his  nose.  'Well,  you  see,  I  am 
fearful  man,  and  I  do  not  like  responsibility.  You  were  sick,  you 
see,  and  I  did  not  know  where  deuce  and  all  the  papers  were,  and 
if  so,  how  many.  So  when  I  had  come  down  here  I  slipped  in 
private  wire  to  Mahbub  —  he  was  at  Meerut  for  races  —  and  I 
tell  him  how  case  stands.  He  comes  up  with  his  men  and  he  con- 
sorts with  the  lama,  and  then  he  calls  me  a  fool,  and  is  very 
rude ' 


KIM  345 

*  But  wherefore  —  wherefore  ? ' 

'That  is  what  7  ask.  I  only  suggest  that  if  any  one  steals  the 
papers  I  should  like  some  good  strong,  brave  men  to  rob  them 
back  again.  You  see  they  are  vitally  important,  and  Mahbub  Ali 
he  did  not  know  where  you  were.' 

'Mahbub  Ali  to  rob  the  Sahiba's  house?  Thou  art  mad,  Babu,' 
said  Kim  with  indignation. 

'I  wanted  the  papers.  Suppose  she  had  stole  them.  It  was 
only  practical  suggestion,  /  think.  You  are  not  pleased,  eh?' 

A  native  proverb  —  unquotable  —  showed  the  blackness  of 
Kim's  disapproval. 

'Well,'  —  Hurree  shrugged  his  shoulders,  —  'there  is  no  ac- 
counting for  thee  taste.  Mahbub  was  angry  too.  He  has  sold 
horses  all  about  here,  and  he  says  old  lady  is  pukka  (thorough) 
old  lady  and  would  not  condescend  to  such  ungentlemanly  things. 
/  do  not  care.  I  have  got  the  papers,  and  I  was  very  glad  of  moral 
support  from  Mahbub.  I  tell  you  I  am  fearful  man,  and,  somehow 
or  other,  the  more  fearful  I  am  the  more  damn-tight  places  I  get 
into.  So  I  was  glad  you  came  with  me  to  Chini,  and  I  am  glad 
Mahbub  was  close  by*  The  old  lady  she  is  sometimes  very  rude 
to  me  and  my  beautiful  pills.' 

'Allah  be  merciful,'  said  Kim  on  his  elbow,  rejoicing.  'What  a 
beast  of  wonder  is  a  Babu!  And  that  man  walked  alone  —  if  he 
did  walk  —  with  robbed  and  angry  foreigners.' 

'Oah,  that  was  nothing  after  they  had  done  beating  me,  but  if 
I  lost  the  papers  it  was  pretty  jolly  serious.  Mahbub  he  nearly 
beat  me  too,  and  he  went  and  consorted  with  the  lama  no  end.  I 
shall  keep  to  ethnological  investigations  henceforward.  Now 
good-bye,  Mister  O'Hara.  I  can  catch  4.25  P.M.  to  Umballa  if  I 
am  quick.  It  will  be  good  times  when  we  all  tell  thee  tale  up  at 


346  KIM 

Mister  Lurgan's.  I  shall  report  you  offeecially  better.  Good- 
bye, my  dear  fallow,  and  when  next  you  are  under  the  emotions 
please  do  not  use  the  Mohammedan  terms  with  the  Tibet  dress.' 

He  shook  hands  twice  —  a  Babu  to  his  boot  heels  —  and  opened 
the  door.  With  the  fall  of  the  sunlight  upon  his  still  triumphant 
face  he  returned  to  the  humble  Dacca  quack. 

1  He  robbed  them,'  thought  Kim,  forgetting  his  own  share  in  the 
game.  'He  tricked  them.  He  lied  to  them  like  a  Bengali.  They 
give  him  a  chit  (a  testimonial).  He  makes  them  a  mock  at  the 
risk  of  his  life  —  /  never  would  have  gone  down  to  them  after  the 
pistol-shots  —  and  he  says  he  is  a  fearful  man.  .  .  .  And  he 
is  a  fearful  man.  I  must  get  into  the  world  again.' 

At  first  his  legs  bent  like  bad  pipe-stems  and  the  flood  and  rush 
of  the  sunlit  air  dazzled  him.  He  squatted  by  the  white  wall,  the 
mind  rummaging  among  the  incidents  of  the  long  dooli  journey, 
the  lama's  weaknesses,  and  now  that  the  stimulus  of  talk  was  re- 
moved, his  own  great  self-pity,  of  which,  like  the  sick,  he  had  great 
store.  The  unnerved  brain  edged  away  from  all  the  outside,  as  a 
raw  horse,  once  rowelled,  sidles  from  the  spur.  It  was  enough, 
amply  enough,  that  the  spoil  of  the  kilta  was  away  —  off  his  hands 
—  out  of  his  possession.  He  tried  to  think  of  the  lama,  —  to  won- 
der why  he  had  tumbled  into  a  brook,  —  but  the  bigness  of  the 
world,  seen  between  the  forecourt  gates,  swept  linked  thought  aside. 
Then  he  looked  upon  the  trees  and  the  broad  fields,  with  the 
thatched  huts  hidden  among  crops  —  looked  with  strange  eyes 
unable  to  take  up  the  size  and  proportion  and  use  of  things  — 
stared  for  a  still  half-hour.  All  that  while  he  felt,  though  he  could 
not  put  it  into  words,  that  his  soul  was  out  of  gear  with  its  sur- 
roundings —  a  cog-wheel  unconnected  with  any  machinery,  just 
like  the  idle  cog-wheel  of  a  cheap  Beheea  sugar  crusher  laid  by  in 


KIM  347 

a  corner.  The  breezes  fanned  over  him,  the  parrots  shrieked  at 
him,  the  noises  of  the  populated  house  behind  —  squabbles,  orders, 
and  reproofs  —  hit  on  dead  ears. 

'I  am  Kim.     I  am  Kim;  and  what  is  Kim?'     His  soul  repeated 
it  again  and  again. 

He  did  not  want  to  cry,  —  had  never  felt  less  like  crying  in  his 
life,  —  but  of  a  sudden  easy,  stupid  tears  trickled  down  his  nose, 
and  with  almost  an  audible  click  he  felt  the  wheels  of  his  being 
lock  up  anew  on  the  world  without.  Things  that  rode  meaningless 
on  his  eyeball  an  instant  before  slid  into  proper  proportion.  Roads 
were  meant  to  be  walked  upon,  houses  to  be  lived  in,  cattle  to  be 
driven,  fields  to  be  tilled,  and  men  and  women  to  be  talked  to. 
They  were  all  real  and  true  —  solidly  planted  upon  the  feet  — 
perfectly  comprehensible  —  clay  of  his  clay,  neither  more  nor  less. 
He  shook  himself  like  a  dog  with  a  flea  in  his  ear,  and  rambled  out 
of  the  gate.  Said  the  Sahiba,  to  whom  watchful  eyes  reported 
this  move :  '  Let  him  go.  I  have  done  my  share.  Mother  Earth 
must  do  the  rest.  When  the  Holy  One  comes  back  from  medita- 
tion, tell  him.' 

There  stood  an  empty  bullock-cart  on  a  little  knoll  half  a  mile 
away,  with  a  young  banian  tree  behind  —  a  look-out,  as  it  were, 
above  some  new-ploughed  levels;  and  his  eyelids,  bathed  in  soft 
air,  grew  heavy  as  he  neared  it.  The  ground  was  good  clean  dust ' 
—  no  new  herbage  that,  living,  is  half-way  to  death  already,  but 
the  hopeful  dust  that  holds  the  seed  of  all  life.  Kim  felt  it  be- 
tween his  toes,  patted  it  with  his  palms,  and,  joint  by  joint,  sigh- 
ing luxuriously,  laid  him  down  full  length  along  in  the  shadow  of 
the  wooden-pinned  cart.  And  Mother  Earth  was  as  faithful  as 
the  Sahiba.  She  breathed  through  him  to  restore  the  poise  he 
had  lost  lying  so  long  on  a  cot  cut  off  from  her  good  currents.  His 


348  KIM 

head  lay  powerless  upon  her  breast,  and  his  opened  hands  sur- 
rendered to  her  strength.  The  races  who  shoe  their  feet  with  iron 
and  the  skins  of  dead  animals,  who  pack  boards  and  concrete  be- 
tween themselves  and  the  clay  of  their  fashioning,  do  not  under- 
stand, except  when  they  go  camping,  how  Earth,  that  gives  all 
the  fevers,  can  also  take  them  away.  The  many-rooted  tree  above 
him,  and  even  the  dead  man-handled  wood  beside  him,  knew  what 
he  sought,  as  he  himself  did  not  know.  Hour  upon  hour  he  lay 
deeper  than  sleep.  Towards  evening,  when  the  dust  of  returning 
kine  made  all  the  horizons  smoke,  came  the  lama  and  Mahbub 
Ali,  both  afoot,  walking  cautiously,  for  the  house  had  told  them 
where  he  had  gone. 

*  Allah!  What  a  fool's  trick  to  play  in  open  country,'  muttered 
the  horse-dealer.  'He  could  be  shot  a  hundred  times  —  but  this 
is  not  the  Border.' 

'And,'  said  the  lama,  repeating  a  many-times-told  tale,  'never 
was  such  a  chela.  Temperate,  kindly,  wise,  of  ungrudging  dis- 
position, a  merry  heart  upon  the  road,  never  forgetting,  learned, 
truthful,  courteous.  Great  is  his  reward!' 

'I  know  the  boy  —  as  I  have  said.' 

'And  he  was  all  those  things?' 

'Some  of  them  -  -  but  I  have  not  yet  found  a  Red  Hat's  charm 
for  making  him  overly  truthful.  He  has  certainly  been  well 
nursed.' 

'The  Sahiba  is  a  heart  of  gold,'  said  the  lama  earnestly.  'She 
looks  upon  him  as  her  son.' 

'Humph!  Half  Hind  seems  that  way  disposed.  I  only  wished 
to  see  that  the  boy  had  come  to  no  harm  and  was  a  free  agent.  As 
thou  knowest,  he  and  I  were  old  friends  in  the  first  days  of  your 
pilgrimage  together.' 


KIM  349 

'That  is  a  bond  between  us.'  The  lama  sat  down.  'We  are 
at  the  end  of  the  pilgrimage.' 

'No  thanks  to  thee  thine  was  not  cut  off  for  good  and  all  a  week 
back.  I  heard  what  the  Sahiba  said  to  thee  when  we  bore  thee  up 
on  the  cot.'  Mahbub  laughed,  and  tugged  his  newly  dyed  beard. 

'I  was  meditating  upon  other  matters  that  tide.  It  was  the 
hakim  from  Dacca  broke  my  meditations.' 

'Otherwise'  —  this  was  in  Pashtu  for  decency's  sake  —  'thou 
wouldst  have  ended  thy  meditations  upon  the  sultry  side  of  Hell 
—  being  an  unbeliever  and  an  idolater  for  all  thy  child's  simplicity. 
But  now,  Red  Hat,  what  is  to  be  done?' 

'This  very  night,'  —  the  words  came  slowly,  vibrating  with 
triumph,  —  'this  very  night  he  will  be  as  free  as  I  am  from  all 
taint  of  sin  —  assured  as  I  am  when  he  quits  this  body  of  Freedom 
from  the  Wheel  of  Things.  I  have  a  sign,'  he  laid  his  hand  above 
the  torn  chart  in  his  bosom,  'that  my  time  is  short;  but  I  shall 
have  safe-guarded  him  throughout  the  years.  Remember,  I  have 
reached  Knowledge,  as  I  told  thee  only  three  nights  back.' 

'It  must  be  true,  as  the  Tirah  priest  said  when  I  stole  his  cousin's 
wife,  that  I  am  a  sufi  (a  free-thinker) ;  for  here  I  sit,'  said  Mahbub 
to  himself,  'drinking  in  blasphemy  unthinkable.  I  remember 
the  tale.  On  that,  then,  he  goes  to  Jannatu  /'  Adn  (the  Gardens 
of  Eden).  .  .  .  Wilt  thou  slay  him  or  drown  him  in  that 
wonderful  River  from  which  the  Babu  dragged  thee?' 

'I  was  dragged  from  no  River,'  said  the  lama  simply.  'Thou 
hast  forgotten  what  befell.  I  found  it  by  Knowledge.' 

'Oh,  ay.  True,'  stammered  Mahbub,  divided  between  high 
indignation  and  enormous  mirth.  'I  had  forgotten  the  true  run 
of  what  happened.  Thou  didst  find  it  knowingly.' 

'And  to  say  that  I  would  take  life  is  —  not  a  sin,  but  a  madness 


350  KIM 

simple.  My  chela  aided  me  to  the  River.  It  is  his  right  to  be 
cleansed  from  sin  —  with  me.' 

'Ay,  he  needs  cleansing  —  but  afterwards,  old  man  —  after- 
wards ? ' 

'What  matter  under  all  the  heavens?  He  is  sure  of  Nibban  — 
enlightened  —  as  I  am.' 

'Well  said.  I  had  a  fear  he  might  mount  Mohammed's  horse 
and  fly  away.' 

'Nay  —  he  must  go  forth  as  a  teacher.' 

'Aha!  Now  I  see!  That  is  the  right  gait  for  the  colt.  Cer- 
tainly he  must  go  forth  as  a  teacher.  He  is  somewhat  urgently 
needed  as  a  scribe  by  the  State,  for  instance.' 

'To  that  end  he  was  prepared.  I  acquired  merit  in  that  I  gave 
alms  for  his  sake.  A  good  deed  does  not  die.  He  aided  me  in  my 
Search.  I  aided  him  in  his.  Just  is  the  Wheel,  O  horse-seller 
from  the  North.  Let  him  be  a  teacher.  Let  him  be  a  scribe. 
What  matter?  He  will  have  attained  Freedom  at  the  end.  The 
rest  is  illusion.' 

'What  matter?  when  I  must  have  him  with  me  beyond  Balkh 
in  six  months!  I  come  up  with  ten  lame  horses  and  three  strong- 
backed  men  —  thanks  to  that  chicken  of  a  Babu  —  to  -break  a 
sick  boy  by  force  out  of  an  old  harpy's  house.  It  seems  that  I 
stand  by  while  a  young  Sahib  is  hoisted  into  Allah  knows  what  of 
an  idolater's  heaven  by  means  of  old  Red  Hat/  And  I  am  reckoned 
something  of  a  player  of  the  game  myself!  But  the  madman  is 
fond  of  the  boy;  and  I  must  be  very  reasonably  mad  too.' 

'What  is  the  prayer?'  said  the  lama,  as  the  rough  Pashtu 
rumbled  into  the  red  beard. 

'No  matter  at  all;  but  now  I  understand  that  the  boy,  sure 
of  Paradise,  can  yet  enter  Government  service,  my  mind  is  easier. 


KIM  351 

I  must  get  to  my  horses.  It  grows  dark.  Do  not  wake  him.  I 
have  no  wish  to  hear  him  call  thee  master.' 

'But  he  is  my  disciple.     What  else?' 

'He  has  told  me.'  Mahbub  choked  down  his  touch  of  spleen 
and  rose  laughing.  '  I  am  not  altogether  of  thy  faith,  Red  Hat  — 
if  so  small  a  matter  concern  thee.' 

'It  is  nothing,'  said  the  lama. 

'I  thought  not.  Therefore  it  will  not  move  thee  sinless,  new- 
washed  and  three  parts  drowned  to  boot,  when  I  call  thee  a  good 
man  —  a  very  good  man.  We  have  talked  together  some  four  or 
five  evenings  now,  and  for  all  I  am  a  horse-coper  I  can  still,  as  the 
saying  is,  see  holiness  beyond  the  legs  of  a  horse.  Yes,  can  see, 
too,  how  our  Friend  of  all  the  World  put  his  hand  in  thine  at  the 
first.  Use  him  well,  and  suffer  him  to  return  to  the  world  as  a 
teacher,  when  thou  hast  —  bathed  his  legs,  if  that  is  the  proper 
medicine  for  the  colt.' 

'Why  not  follow  the  Way  thyself,  and  so  accompany  the  boy?' 

Mahbub  stared  stupefied  at  the  magnificent  insolence  of  the 
demand,  which  across  the  Border  he  would  have  paid  with  more 
than  a  blow.  Then  the  humour  of  it  touched  his  Mohammedan 
soul. 

'  Softly  —  softly  —  one  foot  at  a  time,  as  the  lame  gelding  went 
over  the  Umballa  jumps.  I  may  come  to  Paradise  later  -  - 1  have 
workings  that  way  —  great  motions  —  and  I  owe  them  to  thy 
simplicity.  Thou  hast  never  lied?' 

'What  need?' 

'O  Allah,  hear  him!  "What  need"  in  this  Thy  world!  Nor 
ever  harmed  a  man  ? ' 

'Once  —  with  a  pencase  —  before  I  was  wise.' 

'Good!     I  think  the  better  of  thee.     Thy  teachings  are  good. 


352  KIM 

Thou  hast  turned  one  man  that  I  know  from  the  path  of  strife.' 
He  laughed  immensely.  'He  came  here  open-minded  to  commit 
a  dacoity  (a  house-robbery  with  violence).  Yes,  to  cut,  rob,  kill, 
and  carry  off  what  he.  desired.' 

*A  great  foolishness!' 

'Oh!  black  shame  too.  So  he  thought  after  he  had  seen  thee 
—  and  a  few  others,  male  and  female.  So  he  abandoned  it;  and 
now  he  goes  to  beat  a  big  black  man.' 

'I  do  not  understand.' 

*  Allah  forbid  it!  Some  men  are  strong  in  knowledge,  Red  Hat. 
Thy  strength  is  stronger  still.  Keep  it  —  I  think  thou  wilt.  If 
the  boy  is  not  a  good  servant,  pull  his  ears  off.' 

With  a  hitch  of  his  broad  Bokhariot  belt  the  Pathan  swaggered 
off  into  the  gloaming,  and  the  lama  came  down  from  his  clouds  so 
far  as  to  look  at  the  broad  back. 

'That  person  lacks  courtesy,  and  is  deceived  by  the  shadow  of 
appearances.  But  he  spoke  well  of  my  chela,  who  now  enters 
upon  his  reward.  Let  me  make  the  prayer!  .  .  .  Wake,  O 
fortunate  above  all  born  of  women.  Wake!  It  is  found!' 

Kim  came  up  from  those  deep  wells  of  sleep,  and  the  lama  at- 
tended his  yawning  pleasure;  duly  snapping  fingers  to  head  off 
evil  spirits. 

'I  have  slept  a  hundred  years.     Where ?     Holy  One,  hast 

thou  been  here  long?  I  went  out  to  look  for  thee,  but'  —  he 
laughed  drowsily  —  'I  slept  by  the  way.  I  am  all  well  now. 
Hast  thou  eaten?  Let  us  go  to  the  house.  It  is  many  days  since 
I  tended  thee.  And  the  Sahiba  fed  thee  well?  Who  shampooed 
thy  legs  ?  What  of  the  weaknesses  ?  The  belly  and  the  neck,  and 
the  beating  in  the  ears?' 

'Gone  —  all  gone.     Dost  thou  not  know?' 


HE  CROSSED  HIS  HANDS  ON  HIS  LAP  AND  SMILED,  AS  A  MAN  WHO  HAS 
WON  SALVATION  FOR  HIMSELF  AND  HIS  BELOVED 


KIM  353 

'  I  know  nothing,  but  that  I  have  not  seen  thee  for  a  monkey's 
age.  Know  what?' 

'Strange  the  knowledge  did  not  reach  out  to  thee,  when  all  my 
thoughts  were  theeward.' 

'I  cannot  see  the  face,  but  the  voice  is  like  a  gong.  Has  the 
Sahiba  made  a  young  man  of  thee  by  her  cookery?' 

He  peered  at  the  cross-legged  figure,  outlined  jet-black  against 
the  lemon-coloured  drift  of  light.  So  does  the  stone  Bodhisat 
sit  who  looks  down  upon  the  patent  self-registering  turnstiles  of  the 
Lahore  Museum. 

The  lama  held  his  peace.  Except  for  the  click  of  the  rosary  and 
a  faint  clop-clop  of  Mahbub's  retreating  feet,  the  soft,  smoky 
silence  of  evening  in  India  wrapped  them  close. 

'Hear  me!     I  bring  news.' 

'But  let  us 

Out  shot  the  long  yellow  hand  compelling  silence.  Kim  tucked 
his  feet  under  his  robe-edge  obediently. 

'Hear  me!  I  bring  news!  The  Search  is  finished.  Comes  now 
the  Reward.  .  .  .  Thus.  When  we  were  among  the  hills, 
I  lived  on  thy  strength  till  the  young  branch  bowed  and  nigh  broke. 
When  we  came  out  of  the  hills,  I  was  troubled  for  thee  and  for 
other  matters  which  I  held  in  my  heart.  The  boat  of  my  soul 
lacked  direction;  I  could  not  see  into  the  Cause  of  Things.  So  I 
gave  thee  over  to  the  virtuous  woman  altogether.  I  took  no  food. 
I  drank  no  water.  Still  I  saw  not  the  Way.  They  pressed  food 
upon  me  and  cried  at  my  shut  door.  So  I  removed  myself  to  a 
hollow  under  a  tree.  I  took  no  food.  I  took  no  water.  I  sat  in 
meditation  two  days  and  two  nights,  abstracting  my  mind;  in- 
breathing and  outbreathing  in  the  required  manner.  .  .  . 
Upon  the  second  night  -  -  so  great  was  my  reward  -  -  the  wise  soul 


354  K  I  M 

loosed  itself  from  the  silly  body  and  went  free.  This  I  have  never 
before  attained,  though  I  have  stood  on  the  threshold  of  it.  Con- 
sider, for  it  is  a  marvel!' 

*A  marvel  indeed.  Two  days  and  two  nights  without  food! 
Where  was  the  Sahiba?'  said  Kim  under  his  breath. 

'Yea,  my  soul  went  free,  and,  wheeling  like  an  eagle,  saw  indeed 
that  there  was  no  Teshoo  Lama  nor  any  other  soul.  As  a  drop 
falls  into  water,  so  my  soul  drew  near  to  the  Great  Soul  which  is 
beyond  all  things.  At  that  point,  exalted  in  contemplation,  I 
saw  all  Hind,  from  Ceylon  in  the  sea  to  the  Hills,  and  my  own 
painted  rocks  at  Suchzen;  I  saw  every  camp  and  village,  to  the 
least,  where  we  have  ever  rested.  I  saw  them  at  one  time  and  in 
one  place;  for  they  were  within  my  soul.  By  this  I  knew  the  soul 
had  passed  beyond  the  illusion  of  Time  and  Space  and  of  Things. 
By  this  I  knew  that  I  was  free.  I  saw  thee  lying  in  thy  cot,  and  I 
saw  thee  falling  down  hill  under  the  idolater  —  at  one  time,  in  one 
place,  in  my  soul,  which,  as  I  say,  had  touched  the  Great  Soul. 
Also  I  saw  the  stupid  body  of  Teshoo  Lama  lying  down,  and  the 
hakim  from  Dacca  kneeled  beside,  shouting  in  its  ear.  Then  my 
soul  was  all  alone,  and  I  saw  nothing,  for  I  was  all  things,  having 
reached  the  Great  Soul.  And  I  meditated  a  thousand  thousand 
years,  passionless,  well  aware  of  the  Causes  of  all  Things.  Then  a 
voice  cried:  "What  shall  come  to  the  boy  if  thou  art  dead?"  and 
I  was  shaken  back  and  forth  in  myself  with  pity  for  thee;  and  I 
said:  "I  will  return  to  my  chela  lest  he  miss  the  Way."  Upon 
this  my  soul,  which  is  the  soul  of  Teshoo  Lama,  withdrew  itself 
from  the  Great  Soul  with  strivings  and  yearnings  and  retchings  and 
agonies  not  to  be  told.  As  the  egg  from  the  fish,  as  the  fish  from 
the  water,  as  the  water  from  the  cloud,  as  the  cloud  from  the  thick 
air;  so  put  forth,  so  leaped  out,  so  drew  away,  so  fumed  up  the  soul 


KIM  355 

of  Teshoo  Lama  from  the  Great  Soul.  Then  a  voice  cried :  "The 
River!  Take  heed  to  the  River!"  and  I  looked  down  upon  all  the 
world,  which  was  as  I  have  seen  it  before  —  one  in  time,  one  in 
place  —  and  I  said:  "Yonder  is  the  River  of  the  Arrow  at  my 
feet."  At  that  hour  my  soul  was  hampered  by  some  evil  or  other 
whereof  I  was  not  wholly  cleansed,  and  it  lay  upon  my  arms  and 
coiled  round  my  waist;  but  I  put  it  aside,  and  I  cast  forth  as  an 
eagle  in  my  flight  for  the  very  place  of  the  River.  I  pushed  aside 
world  upon  world  for  thy  sake.  I  saw  the  River  below  me  —  the 
River  of  the  Arrow  —  and,  descending,  the  waters  of  it  closed  over 
me;  and  behold  I  was  again  in  the  body  of  Teshoo  Lama,  but  free 
from  sin,  and  the  hakim  from  Dacca  bore  up  my  head  in  the  water 
of  the  River.  It  is  beyond  the  mango-tope  here  -  -  even  here ! ' 

'Allah  Kerim!  Oh,  well  that  the  Babu  was  there!  Wast  thou 
very  wet? ' 

'Why  should  I  regard?  I  remember  the  hakim  was  concerned 
for  the  body  of  Teshoo  Lama.  He  haled  it  out  of  the  holy  waters 
in  his  hands,  and  there  came  afterward  a  horse-seller  from  the 
North  with  a  cot  and  men,  and  they  put  the  body  on  the  cot  and 
bore  it  up  to  the  Sahiba's  house.' 

'What  said  the  Sahiba?' 

'I  was  meditating  in  that  body,  and  did  not  hear.  So  thus  the 
Search  is  ended.  For  the  merit  that  I  have  acquired,  the  River  of 
the  Arrow  is  here.  It  broke  forth  at  our  feet,  as  I  have  said.  I 
have  found  it.  Son  of  my  soul,  I  have  wrenched  my  soul  back 
from  the  Threshold  of  Freedom  to  free  thee  from  all  sin  -  -  as  I 
am  free,  and  sinless.  Just  is  the  Wheel!  Certain  is  our  deliver- 
ance. Come!' 

He  crossed  his  hands  on  his  lap  and  smiled,  as  a  man  may 
who  has  won  Salvation  for  himself  and  his  beloved. 


THE  COUNTRY  LIFE  PRESS 
GARDEN  CITY,  N.  Y. 


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